Living A Lie
by Ginger-Bizkit
Summary: About Touchstone's life as a child growing up as a son of the Queen, with a tiny little detail about his life kept secret from him. Love, anger, betrayal, and evil plans! I don't own any of these characters.
1. The Hunt

_This is a strictly no-money-gained story taken from a dream I had a couple of months ago and added to, based on Gath Nix's winner book Sabriel. I do not claim to own any of _Gath Nix's _stories or characters! Enjoy!_

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**Prologue**

The group had ridden long and hard across the Old Kingdom to the seaside town of Navis, then taken the fastest fishing boat to Belisaere that they could possibly afford. It had taken the group four days to finally reach their destination, and on arrival were shown directly into the throne room, where hovering Charter marks burned brightly in the air, a pure and beautiful sight.

The three men dropped to a bow as the Queen swept into the throne room, closely followed by a swarm of bleary-eyed lady's maids, who looked peeved at being woken at such a Charter forsaken hour of the night. The Queen, contrary to her servants, greeted the three men with a warm smile and the familiar kindness in her hazel eyes which made her people love her so much.

Queen Iolanthe was undoubtedly one of the most beautiful women in the Old Kingdom, with her luxurious golden locks, romantic eyes, full lips, and tall, slender figure. Many considered her a little too young to hold the most powerful position in the Kingdom, next to the Abhorsen and Clayr, of course.

"Greetings," she said to the men, her voice light and somehow musical. "Welcome to my home."

She smiled warmly at the three exhausted men. The Queen then called forwards one of her lady's maid, ordering her to go summon food and wine from the kitchens. Queen Iolanthe would hear no news until she had seen that the three men were properly fed and watered, and the riders were at least grateful for her hospitality.

"Now tell me, messengers," Iolanthe said, when the servants had cleared the last of the soup and bread away. "What news is it that you must ride to my palace and beg to speak with me?"

The three men shifted uneasily where the stood, unable to look the beautiful lady in the face. Iolanthe frowned, wondering why the men held back their news.

"Please, sirs," she called, her voice laced with a touch of sternness. "I have asked you a question, now I seek an answer. What brings you here?"

"Please, Ma'am," one of the men said hoarsely, bowing out of respect. "Our news concerns the nobleman, Urien, from the north."

The group saw the Queen stiffen slightly in her seat. One arm slipped apprehensively about her waist in an almost protective manner. Two of the men glanced at one another out of the corners of their eyes.

"Urien? What has happened to him?"

The group leader took a shudder breath. "Ma'am, our news is sorrowful. Lord Urien is dead."

"No," whispered Iolanthe, eyes grown wide with horror. "Dead? Urien…dead?"

"Not again," one of the lady's maids muttered to her friend. Thankfully, no one else heard.

"We are truly sorry, Ma'am," another of the riders said gravely.

Iolanthe was very quiet for a moment. Finally, she asked in a heavy voice: "When did Urien die?"

"Three days ago, on Long Dyrell's Road," someone answered her. "It was a hunting accident; the Dead were not involved."

The Queen let out a sigh of relief. "Well, that is something at least. I do not think the Abhorsen would thank me if I sent him on another Dead-hunt this season. Oh, by the Charter, what a terrible night this is! Please forgive me, I have still not properly digested your sorrowful news, and I would retire."

The men bowed as the Queen slowly rose to her feet, helped by two lady's maids, waiting before the Queen and lady's maids had all departed before they turned to each other. There was excitement in the other two men's eyes.

"Do you think the rumours are true?" they whispered to the leader.

"Did you see her hand go to her stomach? Maybe she really _is _pregnant with Urien's child!"

"Hold your tongues before I cut them from your mouths!" the leader hissed angrily, cuffing the nearest man about the head. "This is the Queen you are slandering; have you both forgotten your places?"

"Urien obviously forgot his," muttered the second rider tetchily, only to receive another vicious cuff about the head. So passed Lord Urien, Queen Iolanthe's last love.

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_KK, so that's the prologue. Please comment but try to refrain from sending any falmes!_


	2. A Rude Interruption

**Author's note: Yeah! One review so far! Finally got round to finding a spare moment to load up the First Chapter! Hope you enjoy, and PLEASE REVIEW!

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**Chapter One**

_The sound of screeching violins and howling trumpets is _not _the best thing to wake up to at ten o'clock in the morning_, thought the youth angrily, as he stormed through the hallways in only his dressing gown, ignoring the bobbed curtseys and bows from the servants passing in the opposite direction.

It was nearing the famous Midsummer festival, and all through the capital people were preparing to splash out for the occasion. Bouquets of Charter synthetic flowers were appearing all over the city and palace like…like zits on a teenager. Though the youth had always enjoyed the excitement and hubbub of the festivals, over his sixteen years of having to constantly participate or watch the same basic monotony _every single year_, the youth had found that Midwinter and Midsummer festivals had more all less lost all novelty they'd ever had.

Now he was older, whoever, the more adult side of the festival was catching the youth's interests: the dancing girls in their elaborate costumes, for instants, was far more exciting than watching that daft Bird of Dawning running into lampposts or falling over the Spirits of Summers' feet. Unfortunately for the youth, his little sister had been roped into being a dancer that year. No eyeing up the dancers in front of her, that was for sure, for no doubt she'd give him some sort of lecture on women's rights, or whatever it was supposed to be.

The sounds of musicians wailing grew louder as the young man reached the great hall where the rehearsals were taking place. He threw open the door with a huge amount of force, making the people the performers in the room stop what they were doing.

"Rogirek!"

The Crowned Prince Rogirek sighed bitterly as he heard his sister shout at him. He turned to face her as came running over to him, her face a picture of fury. "What is it, Elsiea?"

The girl glared up at Rogir as she stopped in front of him, sky blue eyes burning with rage. "Can't you see this is a rehearsal?"

Rogir let out a mock gasp of surprise. "Really? _Is _it? By the Charter, I never would have guessed! Ah, Elsie, where would Belisaere be without your uncanny intelligence?"

His sister, Elsie, shook her head angrily, folding her arms across her chest. "You needn't be rude, Rogir."

He smiled crookedly, patting her on the top of her head. "And _you _don't needn't go involving yourself in my life. Now…" Rogir turned to look at the musicians and dancers, who were pretending not to be listening to the sibling's quarrel. "Great rehearsal, guys! Looking really good! Now would you all just _CLEAR OFF!_"

There was a great clattering and banging as the performers hurriedly grabbed their belongings, all trying to leave the room before the Crowned Prince _really _started getting angry with them. In was common knowledge that the Queen had organised that Prince Rogirek would go to the Abhorsen for a two weeks, in order to learn why the Abhorsens where so important in the Kingdom. Rogirek had not been all that pleased; he didn't like the Abhorsen, and the Abhorsen wasn't so keen on the Prince. It was rumoured that all the Prince had done on his stay in the Abhorsen's house was dust the study, organise books, and redo all the Abhorsen's accounts. The Prince had only just that previous evening returned home, and had retired to his room without even bothering to call for a little dinner.

Rogir watched through narrowed eyes as the performers scurried out of the hall. Some bowed or curtsied as they fled, though many pretended not to see the Crowned Prince glaring at them. Then, without warning, one of the dancer's caught Rogir's eye. She was about his own age, prettier than all the other girls had been, and the Prince reached forwards as snared her arm as she made to leave through the doors.

"Mmm, and who might _you_ be?" he asked softly, looking the girl up and down.

The girl blushed, looking away from the Prince. "Please, Highness. My name's Pleasance."

Rogir grinned again. "I can see why."

"Kerrigor, you're scaring her," said a bored voice from in the corner of the hall. "Now, let the poor girl go before you give her nightmares."

The Prince blew the girl a kiss as he released her arm. She curtsied again, and then ran from the hall, looking shaken yet very pleased. Rogir chuckled to himself then turned to face the person who had reminded him to keep himself in line. Besides himself, the Prince felt a small smile curving the corners of his mouth, glad to see the person sitting cross-legged on the floor in the corner of the hall, failing miserably at trying t juggle a heavy textbook, an exercise book, and an abacus on his lap.

The boy was not exactly handsome, but had features that were strangely pleasing to the eye, his hair short and tightly curled against his head. He looked up as he felt Rogir looking at him, and his grey eyes brightened slightly at the sight of the Prince, despite the fact he was laden down with homework. The boy bowed his head in respect.

"Greetings, Kerrigor," he said, tipping the books out of his lap with a clatter as he stood up to embrace Rogir. "I see not even two weeks with the old Abhorsen hasn't made you drop your womanising ways, then?"

"Don't even go there, Torrigan," Rogir groaned, enfolding the boy into a tight hug. He held the boy back at arms length suddenly, noticing a small red scar at the corner of the boy's temple. "I see you've been playing sword fights with your little Guard friends again, little brother. You'd better watch yourself with those swords; they're pretty sharp. You might get impaled on one, and that will probably hurt. A lot. In fact, you'll probably _die_, and I for one am certainly not wading into Death to try and fish you back out again."

Torrigan rolled his eyes, shrugging Rogir away. "I'll try and bear that in mind. It's still not going to change my mind, though," he snapped as Rogir went to open his mouth once more. "I'm still going to join the Guard when I'm eleven, Kerrigor, and there's nothing you can say or do that can stop me."

"You're cute," Rogir noted sweetly, catching Torrigan in a headlock and mashing his knuckles into the wriggling boy's skull, "but you have no social life! Aw, poor lickle Torrikins can't get free, and he wants to join the Guard… LOSER!"

"Rogirek!" Elsie was back, a glass of water in her hands, and she glared angrily at her older brother as Torrigan struggled and shouted from somewhere under Rogir's left armpit. "Let him go! Rogirek! Don't make me fetch Mother!"

Rogir pushed Torrigan away from him, still laughing at his brother's bright red face. "Aw, Elsie, you are such a killjoy. When are you going to realise that teasing Torrigan is fun? He's so easy to wind up. Look: he's getting worked up even as we speak. Well, at least as _I _speak; you just whinge and whine a lot."

"Torrigan, just breathe deeply," Elsie ordered the boy, who turned away quickly, clenching his hands in and out of fists. "Rogir, Torrigan's got Petty Court in half an hour; don't get him into one of his moods or else it'll take a lifetime to get him back out of it. And what's so bad about Torri joining the Guard, anyways? He's a decent enough swordsman, and he's won lots of duels against you."

"I know, I know," Rogir admitted. "But…but the Guard is just so _boring_. Early morning watch? Kill me now, why don't you? Only people with no social life – like Torrigan – join the Royal Guard."

Torrigan spun back round to face his brother, a glint of madness in his eyes. "Bite me!"

"Unless you're wearing a skimpy costume and tons of feathers in your hair, I'm not interested," Rogir said smugly. He yawned, shaking the grogginess out of his head. "Now, if you all mind, I'm back off upstairs to beddy-byes. Just wanted to turn that racket off. Hope the Petty Court churns out something interesting for you today, Torrigan," Rogir called over his shoulder as he left the hall. "If not… Try not to look too bored. Believe me, Mother _hates _it when you fall asleep."

Torrigan took another deep breath as the double doors swung close behind his brother. He glanced at Elsie, who shrugged apologetically at her younger brother. She was fourteen months older than Torrigan, with dark brown hair and a kindly nature. Elsie was much like their mother, in a way. The Queen was compassionate, loved by her people, and yet whenever she looked at him with that lovely smile, Torrigan always saw a great pain in his mother's kindly eyes. It was a pain she never spoke with him of. He'd asked her once, asked her why she always seemed distant on his birthdays, why she could not look him in the eyes or even bear the sight of him on those momentous days. The Queen, though, would just smile and kiss Torrigan's cheek, telling him that if he was a good boy and kept his questions to himself, she would tell him when he was older.

But Torrigan was nearly eleven. He was sick of waiting to know the truth. Why wouldn't the Queen just _talk_ to him? Not even Kerrigor knew what the Queen's secret was, and Kerrigor knew just about everything there was to know. He even knew the differences between the different types of Dead, so whatever it was that there mother was keeping quiet had to be a pretty big secret. Maybe…maybe it had something to do with…

"Better clear those books up, Torri," Elsie said, nodding towards his abandoned books. Torrigan shook his head, realising he'd been staring off into the distance as he thought. "Come on. I'll help you get ready for Petty Court, if you want. Don't listen to Rogir; he's just being mean and tired. Let him sleep it off – he'll calm down in a day or two."

_When is Kerrigor ever calm? _Torrigan thought bitterly. _He's my friend, but it doesn't stop him from teasing my constantly. But I'll just try and grin and bear it. Keep calm, that's what Mother says. I'll be fine if I can just keep calm_.

Forcing a smile, Torrigan turned and started to gather up his things from the cold floor underfoot.

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**That's the first chapter done. Please review but still no flames (or 'falmes', as I've said in the Prologue.) I can't spell for toffee sob, and I do love toffee so so much!Working on second chapter. Llamas till then, dudes! Love, the Ginger-Bizkit! **


	3. Memories Of A Queen

_Second chapter up!Still don't own any ofGarth Nix'scharacters or stories! Read on..._

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**Chapter Two**

Urien had always been there for her. He had been the oldest son of one of her father's childhood friends, and she had met him on and off during her childhood and adolescents. She would always be seated in her father's carriage by the old King's side, looking down on the bowing boy with the tightly curling brown hair and dreamy grey eyes, and she would wave briefly when she hoped no one from her father's accompanying guards or servants would see. He had always grinned and waved back.

Their friendship grew over time, until Urien became the brother she had never had. It had never occurred to her then that she would one day bear his child. If someone had mentioned it to her, she would probably have laughed outright until the tears poured down her cheeks.

Eventually, their friendship grew into love, but neither of them was brave enough to voice their feelings for the other. Urien, fearful of these feelings for the daughter of the most powerful man in the Kingdom (next only to the Abhorsen – of course), decided to turn a blind eye, and distance himself from her. She had thought he was ignoring her. She had thought he'd hated her. She had cried inconsolably for days, much to her poor mother's dismay. She told no one the reason for her tears; the court doctor put it down to stress, and recommended a strong herbal recipe be given to her that evening. Everyone had commented on how peaceful the Princess looked while she had slept. Only she knew of the relived heartache of rejection that the dreams had brought to her in her sleep.

Not long after that, a war broke out between those on the Ancelstierran side of the Wall and the Old Kingdom. The King rode off to war, as was expected of him, followed by many supports, strong at arms and ready to fight. Being a brilliant swordsman, Urien had gone, too. His father had been killed four days into the fighting.

While the men fought, her mother organised a distraction for her constantly nervous yet sad daughter. Another man. Her daughter had agreed to a marriage when she had seen that her mother was not about to let her say 'no'. And this suitor had never been horrible to her; he was actually very nice to her, unlike Urien had been, so the Princess had agreed. Two weeks later, the King was dead.

She was crowned some three months later, after the Ancelstierrans were put back in their place. Urien had sent a polite yet icy denial of the coronation invite. He hadn't even bothered to wish her good luck. Thirteen months later, Prince Rogirek had been born.

The years flew by while she had watched her little Prince – her future successor – grow. She had forgotten Urien in Rogirek's first smile, his first steps, his first words, and soon another heir graced the Royal nursery on the forth floor above the throne room. Princess Meredith had been a beauty from her first moments in Life, even the midwife had said so. The child's evident good looks had made courtiers stop and stare, and Meredith's bright smile had melted the hearts of every gentle lady to see her. If only her moods matched her good looks!

Then, one day, the court doctor was called for. Her consort was ill. The prospect for his recovery grew slimmer and slimmer each day. Even so, another daughter, Princess Elsiea, had been born. The father was dead not weeks after Elsiea's birth. The Queen had cried when she had been told, devastated by the news. The memories of Rogirek wandering through the halls, searching under tables and stopping passing servants left her feeling helpless and even more alone. And Rogirek's little voice had haunted her at night: "Mama, where's my father?"

She now found herself a widow, alone, and terribly frightened. But she was still the mother of three children and, more importantly, she was the Queen of the Old Kingdom. Her grief had to be put to one side; she _had _to think of her family and of her people. Despite her worst fears, the Queen had managed to pull through.

A part had been hosted at the Palace. It had been the Queen's first party since her consort's death. And _he _had been there. Urien. By the Charter, he had looked so fine, so handsome! He had changed only slightly over the years, but for better. His features were more defined, his eyes wiser, and his seeming hate for her had gone. They had talked endlessly through the party, and Urien had said quietly that he had been sorry to hear of her consort's death, but at least the man lived on in his children. She had been grateful for his words.

Over the next few weeks, Urien visited her regularly in the Palace. He'd even gone so far as to help her with the Royal children, even giving little Rogirek his first swords fighting lesson. He'd been a marvellous teacher, not minding how many times he demonstrated a move to the little boy, helping the boy control and master the little wooden swords. The Queen had watched from the shadows, watching Elsiea out of the corner of her eye as the little toddler terrorised the nannies. Urien had been good with Elsie, too, able to calm her and convince her that throwing the wooden bricks at the nursery staff was not a wise idea. And when he wasn't spending time with the children, Urien was spending time with her. Just Urien and Iolanthe, as it used to be when they were children, talking in the hallways, telling jokes in the gardens, reminiscing over the old times.

When Iolanthe finally plucked up the courage to ask if he had started to hate her just before the war that had killed both their fathers, she was both horrified and delighted when he told her in astonishment that he had done no such thing. He had kissed her then, something that he had not done before. Urien had made new life flourish within her, making Iolanthe remember that although she _was _Queen, she was still also her own person, with feelings and worries the same as everyone else in the Kingdom. But that wasn't the only way.

Then, one terrible night, Urien made a confession. He married not long after Iolanthe had, although his wife, like the consort, was now long dead. The woman had died in childbirth, some two years after the birth of Urien's eldest son and heir to his estate. The twins, unlike their mother, had both survived. The Queen had been horrified by the news, unsure of why Urien had not bothered to tell her that.

"But why is it important? That was all in the past."

"Why is it important? Urien, another marriage, and three children aren't exactly hard to remember! Why haven't you bothered to tell me before now? This is a complete breach of trust!"

"What's wrong with you, woman? Sophia is dead! I would have told you before, but aren't we happy? Why ruin this with the ghosts of the past? I've moved on, and so have you. If it weren't for me, Iolanthe, you'd still be that depressed soul I found you as at that party. _That _wasn't the Iolanthe I remember."

"How long has it been since you saw your children, Urien?"

"What? Oh… Not since I came here, and I'd been away three months before that."

"Urien, you've been here at the Palace for months! Your children… By the Charter, Urien, why didn't you _tell _me all this before?"

"Hey, I wasn't the first one to marry, was I? You married _him_ while _I_ was still away at war."

"I thought you hated me! And my mother didn't give––"

"Well, I obviously wasn't worth waiting for, was I? If you really _had _loved me, you would have waited for me. But you didn't, Iolanthe. My father had died; I needed a wife. Sophia was just at the right place at the right time."

"You are heartless _bastard_, Urien! That woman died because of you, and all you can say is that? Urien, I can't marry a married man! Even if your wife is dead, it wouldn't––"

"We never discussed marriage!"

"And we never discussed children, either!"

"Iolanthe, I didn't mean to lie to you! Yes, I have three children, but don't you have three children also? How is it fair for you to blame _me_ for starting a family, when you did exactly the same thing?"

"I don't mean that––"

"No. You know what, Iolanthe? Forget it. I'm not interested any more. I don't mind the fact that you have a family, but if _my_ family is going to cause you so much grief, then I'll just leave. I didn't come all the way down here to Belisaere just to have you accusing me of a non-existent crime. Thanks, Your Majesty. It's been fun."

"Urien, I didn't mean… Urien, _wait_!"

He hadn't listened to her though, he'd just walked out on her. They had parted on such a sour note, even though Iolanthe had not meant to anger him so. She knew that she had ruined her chances once and for all, even though she prayed to the Charter that circumstances might change. They did change, though not for the better. Urien was killed in the hunting accident, just as the rumours hit their peek. Everybody in Belisaere loved a scandal, yet the Palace smothered the rumours for as long as possible. When they could deny them no more, the whole Kingdom went into a state of frenzied turmoil, debating whether a woman who would sleep with a man that she was not married to was mental fit to run the Kingdom. Iolanthe kept her role as Queen of the Old Kingdom, despite the prejudice that followed her. She ignored the stares she got in court, and the people outside the Palace when she visited places, all desperate to get a glance at the betraying bulge forming beneath her dresses. The whole affair had not calmed until the baby's birth.

Iolanthe had cried when she saw him. Her son – Urien's son – was so handsome, so like his father. She didn't want to be forever reminded of Urien, so she named him Torrigan instead. As he had grown, Torrigan became more and more like his father. He had the same short temper, the same thirst for knowledge, and the same love of swords. It was a little harder to get Torrigan to use Charter Magic, except when it was to do with fighting marks.

But now, as with most children, Torrigan had reached that peculiar age when he wanted to start asking those difficult questions. Luckily, though, Iolanthe thought that she had cured Torrigan of that problem.

When he'd been nine-years-old, one of Iolanthe's ladies-in-waiting had gone on leave four months before her own baby had been born. A few weeks later, while playing Iolanthe's favourite game, Cranaque, Torrigan had asked how babies were made. The got the Queen. Her own mother, when she had asked that question, had waffled on about the blossoming of flowers for half an hour, avoiding the question entirely, and Iolanthe did not want to have to explain to her innocent little son anything that might encourage him to bring up the subject of his father. Instead, Iolanthe had called for the court doctor, who had arrived ten minutes later, grim faced and serious. The court doctor had then explained sex in such graphic detail that even Iolanthe found herself blushing at the man's words, but thankfully Torrigan was too horrified to laugh at his mother's obvious embracement. She felt guilty, of course, and saddened that Torrigan was now too terrified to ask her any more questions encase it involved a talk from the court doctor, but at least it had stopped him from wondering. At least it had stopped him from finding out the truth.

She would tell him one day, but not yet. They were happy family at the moment; why would she want to ruin that? Of course, a little voice inside Iolanthe's head warned her that a similar line had been Urien's downfall. But it would not be her own downfall! Unlike Urien, Iolanthe would not keep this secret from Torrigan forever. She would tell him the morn of his sixteenth birthday, for by then he should be too involved chasing the opposite sex, like Rogir was at the moment, to worry too much about being illegitimate. He'd be hurt, and Iolanthe knew that she would probably be in for some strong language and one for his rages, but Torrigan would come round. He'd understand in the end.

She would tell him when he was sixteen. Not a day before. Not a day after. Charter curse her otherwise! Torrigan would not be her downfall!

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_So, that was it! I hope you enjoyed it, though I still am not sure about whether Urien should be nice or not. He had a complete character-change from what I first thought he'd be like, but oh well. Only the llamas can decide what can happen next. And asI am allama, that is very lucky. Llamas, dudes! G-B!_


	4. An Unexpected Arrival

_Whooo!Four weeks till schools out! Hada whole need to complain about exams and rehersals going on, which Imade me write this chapter.Note: I do not own Gath Nix or any of his characters. Enjoy!_**

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**An Unexpected Arrival**

If there was something Torrigan hated more than homework and lessons, it was examinations. As he sat in the schoolroom, hand poised above the paper, he was subconsciously aware of the schoolmaster watching him from the desk at the front of the room. It wasn't that Torrigan was stupid, he was actually incredibly bright for his age, but Torrigan's intelligence was overshadowed by the forever-talked about omniscience of his older brother. Even though Torrigan tried his hardest, squeezed in revision in between his free time, when he watched and sometimes even practised with the palace Guards, and the times where he wasn't involved in one of the Royal duties that his mother gave out to all of her children, he never seemed to be able to scrape a better mark than Rogir had ever scored. It was a horribly depressing fact, but one that Torrigan would just have to live with.

Sighing, Torrigan took another look at the last question on the sheet. _Name in order of size, the different Abhorsen bells_, Torrigan read to himself, then groaned inwardly. He'd been revising that last night! Or at least, he had _tried _to, but then Elsie had called into his room and dragged him down to the kitchens for a midnight snack before dinner. Cursing inwardly his stomach and Elsie, Torrigan put his pen to the paper.

_First bell: Rana_, Torrigan's pen wrote. _Second bell: Mosrael, third bell: Dyrim_. No, that wasn't right! Torrigan cursed himself inwardly, scribbling out the last bell's name. Stupid necromancy! He knew there were seven bells in grand total, but their names and uses eluded him. When on earth was he going to need to _know _all this stuff!

"One minute," the schoolmaster called, shaking Torrigan out of his mental cursing moment. Torrigan nodded his head, almost relieved that his hour and a half exam was nearly over. "Pen down!" the schoolmaster called sixty seconds later. "Now, I hope that wasn't too drilling for you."

Torrigan glared up at the man, knowing that if he spoke now, the teacher would not hesitate to rip the paper up in front of his nose. He'd made that mistake before, and had had to re-sit a two-hour mathematics paper. The schoolmaster gathered up the question and answer papers, then stalked back towards the school desk. "You may go now, Torrigan. I shall mark this paper, and hopefully return it to you by this evening's meal at the latest. I hope you got the last few questions right, Torrigan."

Without bothering to answer, Torrigan stuffed his pen into his pocket and legged it out the schoolroom. The palace was in a state of hushed panic, and servants ran about everywhere getting ready for Torrigan's surprise birthday party. It had all been planed for months; Torrigan had helped write the invites. Why his family insisted on calling the party a surprise one, Torrgian had no idea, for his mother had asked him if he wanted something grand or low key. Rogir _always _went for Extremely Grand, but Torrigan didn't want people looking at him constantly; low key was always the best way to celebrate his birthday. A few close friends, an occasional government official, an odd leader from one of the Northern clans and, of course, his family. Torrigan would have to endure a banquet in his honour – he always did – but then there would be music and dancing, and that was always Torrigan's favourite part of the birthday celebrations, next to the cutting of the cake and the opening of presents!

Lost in his thoughts, Torrigan rounded a corner at a jog and very nearly collided with a girl walking the opposite way. She let out a cry of frustration, eyes wide with horror as she stared down at half the contents of her cup of water, which had landed elegantly on the bodice of her dress, when she had leapt to the side to avoid crashing into Torrigan. The boy let out a snort of laughter, which turned quickly into a sneeze as the young woman's burning eyes glared up at him.

"Torrigan, you little weasel, watch where you're going!" the young lady snapped, then let out a dramatic sob. "Oh, my poor dress! It's ruined!"

"It's just water, Merry," Torrigan reasoned, fighting back a grin. "It's hardly going to stain, is it?"

Princess Meredith glared at Torrigan one more, a furious look in her sky blue eyes. Many people called Meredith beautiful, stunning, a child of an angel, but as Rogir always said, there was always more to a pretty face. Meredith was what Elsie referred to as a female dog. Meredith was incredibly vain for her fifteen years, unquestionably a drama queen, who could go to meek and humble to assertive and arrogant in less than three seconds. She'd never been a very nice sister to Torrigan, uninterested in the happenings in her baby brother's life. Torrigan had tried getting on her good side when he'd been younger, trying to comfort her when she was sad, telling her jokes to make her laugh, but these were always turned away with a shrug or a cold look. Elsie was a far better sister, going out of her way to be nice to Torrigan for, as she said, he suffered a lot under the hands of Rogir and Meredith. Torrigan knew she was right, and knew of the resentment that both Rogir and Elsie had for Meredith, and he sometimes felt sad that Meredith _still _could not work out why her brother and sister sometimes refused to talk to her. She put it down to jealously. Torrigan knew otherwise.

"It had better not do, Torrigan," Meredith threatened. "This is one of my favourite dresses!"

"Bye, Merry!" Torrigan called cheerfully, as Meredith turned and stormed off down the corridor, head held high. Without paying Meredith another thought, Torrigan turned once more, and began to jog again, heading for the family's private solar. When he reached it, he found Rogir and Elsie in the midst of a heated argument.

"No you are _not_!" Elsie was shouting, as Torrigan reached the door to the solar. "If you do, Rogirek, I swear that––"

"You'll what?" Rogir challenged. "You'll…oooh…post a memorandum under my door informing me about how very angry you are with me?"

"I'll tell mother!" Elsie snapped.

"Ah-ha!" Rogir shouted. "The famous 'mother threat'; a favourite of yours, little sister. That was going to be my second guess."

"Eight o'clock, Rogir," Elsie growled angrily.

"Fine, it's eight o'clock! Look, when I say 'seven', I actually _mean _'eight'. It's a coded message, Elsie! Get it? Oh, would you like me to carve 'eight o'clock' into my forehead just encase I _forget_? "

"What's happening at eight o'clock?" Torrigan asked, walking into the room.

Rogir and Elsie were having a standoff in the middle of the room, each glaring furiously at the other, but both quickly turned away from one another at the sound of Torrigan's voice. Elsie headed for the sofas, still sweat-drenched from rehearsals, while Rogir headed over to Torrigan and punched him lightly on the arm in means of a brotherly greeting.

"What's happening at eight o'clock?" Rogir repeated. "I'm…I'm…erm…" Rogir glanced at Elsie, and then grinned triumphantly. "I'm helping Elsie with her dancing, that's what."

"What, festival dancing?" Torrigan laughed, returning Rogir's punch. A small scuffle ensued, ending with Rogir forcing Torrigan to his knees, the boy's arm pulled up smartly behind his back, making Torrigan yelp. "All right! I surrender!"

"And what is wrong with the festival, Looser?" Rogir asked, ruffling Torrigan's hair as he stood back. "They have some very talented dancers there, I'll have you know."

"Yes, I know. You wouldn't happen to have your eye on one of those very talented dancers, would you, Kerrigor?"

"How did you guess?" Rogir replied with a wink, collapsing into an armchair. "Elsie's absolutely fuming about it, though. Something's getting on her nerves, but she won't tell me what it is." Rogir glared at Elsie for a second, then looked innocently up at Torrigan. "You…you don't think that it could _possibly _be me, could it?"

"Oh, it's not you, Rogir," Elsie sighed, rubbing her eyes tiredly. She looked exhausted, and it was obvious that the rehearsals had begun to get more strenuous as the deadline drew nearer. "Radcliffe decided to introduce a pairs dance into the festival, and I've been paired with––"

"Oooh, say it was me! Say it was me!" Rogir called mockingly, waving his arm high above his head like a little child desperate for the teacher to pick him to answer a question in class.

Elsie looked tiredly towards Rogir, looking genuinely upset. "If only. No, I've been paired up with stupid Logan Francis!"

Torrigan gaped at her. "I'm sorry, did you just say Logan Francis?" Elsie groaned, burying her face into the palms of her hands. "But…but he's rumoured to be the next best thing that's ever happened to the Royal guard! What's _he _doing in the Midsummer festival?"

"Mother's new policy," Rogir replied readily. "All members of the Guard are now required to take part in the festivals every once in a while. So you'll just have to grin and bear him, Elsie," Rogir said with a smirk. "Come on, Elsie, you know that he's drop dead gorgeous really – Meredith never seems to stop going on, and on, and _on _about him!"

"That's just it!" Elsie cried, exasperated. "Merry's going to be absolutely furious with me once she finds out! She really likes Logan, Rogir, and she's going to make my life a living nightmare, I just _know _it!"

"Then the answer is simple," Rogir replied slowly, as though even a village idiot would have thought of it. "Time it exactly, then when Meredith walks past in the corridor, pull Logan in for a nice, big, slobbery kiss! Merry will be so angry, her head will probably exploded with all the pressure. See? Problem solved!"

"I'll bear that in mind," Elsie replied sarcastically, then turned her back to her brothers.

A sudden knock on the door to the solar made the three siblings all start, heads turning as the door was pushed open. The Queen breezed in, smiling at each of her children in turn. Rogir nodded his head towards her, Elsie waved one hand lamely in her general direction, but it was the first time that day that Torrigan had seen his mother. Etiquette stated that when you met a Queen you had to bow/curtsy, even if you were her own son.

"Guess who's just arrived here early for Torri's birthday party?" the Queen asked, smiling at Torrigan, as her son bowed to her.

"Well, it's not me," Rogir said slowly, forehead wrinkling in mock-thought. "And it's none of the family, because we don't actually _have_ any family. Oooh, I don't know. Gone on then, Mother, relieve us from our moment of dire suspense."

The Queen rolled her eyes, pretending that she hadn't heard her heir. Her attention was still focused mainly on Torrigan. "Ta-da!" she cried, stepping away from the door, to reveal a man behind her in the corridor.

He was a tall man, just about to reach that odd boundary where he could not be described as middle-aged and yet not as an old man, either. He had hair the colour of a raven's wing, distinguished streaks of silver blazing starkly across the blackness. His eyes were as dark as coal, his skin deathly white, showing that he had walked paths far from sunlight. He smiled as he saw the joy and alarm spread across Torrigan and Elsie's faces, and both children let out a joint whoop of delight to see the man.

Rogir stood slowly, eyes fixed on the man before him as he walked into the room. The man bowed his head towards the Queen in thanks for his friendly introduction. Elsie hurriedly got off the sofa, rushing to Torrigan's side, but neither of them ran forwards to greet the man as they so desperate to do so, for it was only proper that they should wait until the Crowned Prince had greeted this man himself. But Rogir was not exactly falling over himself to say hello to the man; he stood where he was, meeting the man's gaze calmly, his face void off all emotions. The man chuckled softly.

"I have to admit, I was not expecting such a welcoming committee as I have already been met with. I hoped my arrival would be a little more low key, but your mother seems to think that it is appropriate to overwhelm me with trumpets, government officials, and the like."

"Actually, they organised that themselves," the Queen sighed. "Just be glad you aren't forever getting cornered by committees and politicians whenever you visit an area."

"Not usually by the Living ones, no," the man laughed. He turned back to Rogir again, an amused look in his eyes. "It has been little over three weeks since you left my home, Your Highness. I suppose I cannot say 'a long time no see', can I?"

"No, I suppose you cannot," Rogir agreed half-heartedly. The Queen shot her oldest son a stern look over the man's shoulder, making Rogir remember himself. The Prince cleared his throat nervously, stepping forwards and holding out his hand to the man. "Greetings, Abhorsen."

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_Yay! Needed to get the Abhorsen in there somehow! G-Bizkit!_


	5. For All The Bells In Belisaere

_Have finally got round to the fifth chapter! Computer still broken but thank the llamas for dads that leave their laptops lying around near the USB ADSL modem! (Whatever that means)... Enjoy! And thanks to all the reviewers so far!_**

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**For All The Bells In Belisaere**

Abhorsen nodded his head, shaking Rogir's hand. There was no warmth in either person's grip. Then Abhorsen turned to Torrigan and the youngest Princess, grinning at the two excited children. Five seconds later, Abhorsen was lost was lost under the Royal children's fearsome embrace.

"It's good to see you, too!" the man laughed, managing to free one arm and ruffle Torrigan's curly hair fondly. "I was not expecting such a hearty welcome!"

"Hmm, but mayhap my children are being just a little _too _hearty in their greeting," the Queen said, a hint of sternness in her voice, giving Elsie and Torrigan a cautioning look behind the Abhorsen's back. "I tell you two time and time again, and I shan't tell you two again: that is no way to greet the Abhorsen ––"

"Oh, Iolanthe, let the children be children," the Abhorsen said calmly, pinching Elsie's cheek fondly. "Dear me, how you two have grown! Torri, I swear you've grown at least an inch since I last saw you."

"Two, actually," Torrigan replied proudly. "I'll be as tall as Kerrigor soon."

"Mother." The people in the room turned their heads towards Rogir as he spoke, who coughed nervously, purposefully not looking at the necromancer. "I'm afraid you shall have to excuse me, if that is all right with you."

"I do not believe I asked you to reside over Petty Court today, the Guard don't need reminding of their place... Why must we denied the joys of your company?"

Rogir clearly grimaced at the sarcasm in his mother's voice, but he bit back an unwelcome response. "Majesty, I have a lesson to get to, if you don't remember. I would stay behind and chat, but you're always lecturing me on the importance of music for a Charter..."

The Queen sighed and nodded. Rogir bowed briefly than hurried from the room, retrieving his lyre form the table next to the door. Torrigan and Elsie watched him leave, then released the Abhorsen, their faces apologising for their brother's rushed exit.

"Boys grow up fast and become harder to keep under control," the Abhorsen sighed, as the Queen shook her head in a disappointed fashion. "That's what my father used to say, at least, before a Mordicant claimed his life. Like you, he had two sons, Ma'am."

"We must meet up later," the Queen said, forcing a smile. "I have a lot to ask you about your travels through the Kingdom. Elsie, may I have a word? Torrigan, Arshel, would you mind?"

"Of course not," the Abhorsen replied cheerfully, releasing the nervous-looking Princess, and steering Torri towards the door. "I shall speak to you later, Majesty, mayhap over a drink?" The Queen nodded, and the Abhorsen and Torrigan left the mother and daughter in the solar. "So, Torri, my boy," the Abhorsen laughed, as the two walked down the corridors side by side, "looking forward to being eleven? I hear it's to be straight into the Guard for you."

"I can't wait!" Torrigan beamed at the mere thought of the Guard. "This has been all I've ever wanted, you know that."

"So you'll not be off travelling?"

"No. Mother says that none of us are allowed off wandering until we're at least sixteen. I had a test today: asked me loads about the Abhorsens and what you do. I think I've done all right – though I doubt I'll get as good a mark as Rogir got - especially when it came to the questions about Mordicants. Do you remember that summer when Mother took all of us to visit some poor nobleman down south, and that necromancer set a Mordicant on Uppside?"

"Only too well," Abhorsen replied grimly. "A big brute, strong, but I managed to banish him in the end. They're mighty fearsome creatures, Moridcants, and I hate them almost as much as when I am dealing with the Greater Dead." He stopped by a door, bowing his head to Torrigan. "I am afraid this is where I must leave you, my little friend. We shall speak more at supper, yes?"

Torrigan agreed eagerly, waving cheerfully at the man before he turned and ran off down the corridor, heading for his own chambers. The Abhorsen watched him leave with grim eyes, which soon turned to a pitying look.

_Poor lad_, the Abhorsen thought sadly. _He leads such a privileged life, and yet so much of that life is hidden from him. The longer the truth is left unspoken, the more painful and longer the wounds of its realisation will take to heal. They will torment him badly, and if I know Torrigan as well as I think, he shall not take kindly to such a revelation. _

Then Abhorsen decided that it was not his place to think such things. It was up to Torrigan's family to face reality and talk to the boy, but he knew in his heart that, deep down, the Queen was too afraid to confess. She still loved Urien, even though he had long since past the Final Gate. And she loved their child dearly: the kind-hearted, if not slightly insane, little Torrigan. Iolanthe loved him beyond all reason.The boy was lucky in many respects, Abhorsen knew. He just wished that the Queen was not so afraid. Even she knew that she could not hide from the truth forever.

* * *

Torrigan ran up the staircase, taking the steps two at a time. Supper was going to be served soon, and he had offered to relieve the passing servant boy the task of going up to one of the Queen's private offices, where she was speaking with the Abhorsen, to pass on the message. The servant boy was terrified by the prospect of coming face-to-face with the Abhorsen, and willingly agreed to let Torrigan take his place – so long as he didn't tell the butler, or else the servant boy risk getting his ears boxed several times.

Torrigan guessed that his mother would entertain her important friend in the west wing office, for that was her favourite room. But they were not there. Slightly confused, Torrigan considered the possibilities: the only other place he could possible think of was the reservoir, so he turned and sprinted of towards the secret passage in the family's solar. He heard his mother's voice speaking as he reached the fireplace, and Torrigan pulled up, panting. He had run all the way from the kitchens and was seriously out of breath. Torrigan leant heavily against the wall, rubbing a stitch that had appeared in his side. It was only as he started to creep forwards down the darkened staircase that the Queen's words caught Torrigan's attention, and the boy fought to calm his breathing, desperate to hear what the two inside the reservoir were speaking of.

"We have always been able to control the numbers of necromancers in the Kingdom, Arshel" his mother was saying calmly, "and no necromancer has made it through the gates of this city for over thirty years. They would not dare. We have strict laws on such atrocities, and any person who suspects that they are housing a necromancer in their inns or lodgings know that it is more than their life's worth not to inform a guard."

"That may be as such, but I have to deal with more and more attacks by Mordicants, Shadow Hands, even Stilkens this season; far more than I usually have to cope with. I do not even remember my father, the last Abhorsen, having to tackle so many of the Dead in one year than I have done in this one season." The Abhorsen sounded grim, if not a little tired. "I really do believe that there has been a rise in the number of necromancers over the past few years, and I fear that they are recruiting many young people – those strongly gifted in the Charter – into the service of Free Magic."

Torrigan felt his blood run cold, and he stifled a gasp. More necromancers! The Kingdom was a dangerous enough place to live with the number of Free Magic servants as it was; he could not even imagine a world where there were even more of the Dead running around and killing poor innocents! Further down the passage, Torrigan's mother sounded just as afraid.

"Then...then what should we do? Could I help at all? Maybe the Clayr ––"

"The Clayr do more than enough as it is; it would be unfair to make them do anything more," the Abhorsen sighed. "And I do not think that there is anything that you could do to help either, Iolanthe, except perhaps by making your laws on necromancy even more tighter and severe. They are austere enough as it is, but these necromancers are still ignoring the law and causing a lot of unwanted trouble and grief all over the Kingdom, from Estwael all the way down to Edge. And I am sorry to have to tell you this, my lady, but it is weakening me. I don't know how much more of this constant battling I can take."

_He can't mean that, _Torrigan thought from outside. His mouth had suddenly turned dry and, to his horror, he felt his eyes prick with tears. _He can't mean that! The Abhorsen is the greatest, most powerful man I know – he can't let some silly necromancers get the better of him. It's just impossible! Isn't it?_

"Arshel, you are a brilliant Abhorsen, but even you have your limits. You are still just a man, after all. You should not take all this pressure purely on your shoulders – let someone else share the weight of your duties."

"Like who?" the Abhorsen replied bitterly. "I have no children, Iolanthe, and though I do have two nieces, they are far too young to help me battle the Dead. I do hope to train them, of course, but only when they are older." He laughed slightly. "You know, Iolanthe, if Rogirek did not have...other things on his mind, he would make a very fine Abhorsen indeed."

"And I would willingly allow him to go train with you, but only if both he and you agreed it would be for the best," the Queen replied warmly. "But I know well enough that the two of you do not see eye to eye, and Rogir has no Abhorsen blood in him. I am not sure that it would be a good match."

"Ah, but all your children are part of the Great Charter bloodlines, so Rogir might have had a chance. One who possessed Rogirek's power would make a powerful Abhorsen, and a deadly necromancer."

"What about your brother?" the Queen offered. "Surely he can help you?"

Even from in the passage, Torrigan almost felt the Abhorsen stiffen. "My brother? No, my lady, I am afraid that Micah would be of no adequate help at all! Since his wife died, nothing much has interested him, except caring for his daughters. He is a powerful Charter Mage, and he _does _know how to wield the bells, but... I don't think I could ask him to leave his daughters on their own for so long. I just do not think that he would do such a thing."

"Micah trained with your father also, did he not? Well then, he is the son of an Abhorsen, the brother of an Abhorsen – he basically _is _the Abhorsen. Charter preserve us, Arshel, could you not just ask him to help you? Your brother is kind-hearted, just like you, so surely you can make him see sense. There is more danger to his daughters if he sits back, letting the Dead roam free."

The Abhorsen sighed. "I can ask him. I don't know if it will work. And I think we have an eavesdropper, Iolanthe – they're wheezing something awful over there."

Torrigan jumped. Cursing his stupidity, Torrigan walked forwards into the reservoir, careful not to walk straight into the water. He did not especially like the place, not matter that it was so important for the survival of the Kingdom. It was dark, the water cold no matter what time of year, and it was only the comforting presence of the Great Stones that made Torrigan able to bear the place. The Great Stone were the Charter, or connected to it – he really wasn't sure how they work. They were important, that was all he got, and he was happy to know just that. His fear of the place was drawn from a silly event that had happened many years before, something that would seem merely unpleasant and annoying.

It had been a hot summer, too hot for play in the gardens outside, so the Queen had had the nannies take the four children down to the reservoir to cool off. Rogir, Meredith and Elsie could all swim, but four-year-old Torrigan had not been a confident swimmer at all. He had lingered at the side, to afraid to follow his siblings into the icy water. It looked too dark, too clear, too perfect, and the terrifying stories that Rogir had told him of monsters and serpents that like to reach out of the gloom and gobble up little boys, were all too clear in Torrigan's mind. He'd leaned over cautiously, peering into the deep clearness bellow. It had been too dark to see very much in the water, so there could very well have been monsters and snakes waiting in the depths to eat him. It had terrified the little boy, but before he could scramble back up to his feet, a soaked Rogir had leapt up from behind him. Without even pausing, Rogir had kicked his brother sharply on the backside, sending the little boy somersaulting straight into the freezing water with a shriek of terror and a resounding _splash! _that had been magnified loudly around the reservoir.

If that had happened now, Torrigan would have simply leapt straight back out of the water again and shoved Rogir in. Or he would have taken Rogir down with him. Either way, Torrigan would not swallow what had seemed like half the reservoir and have to be hoisted out by a laughing nanny, who did not seem in the least bit sympathetic as Torrigan had sobbed into her shoulder. Torrigan scowled at the memory, then turned to face his mother. Both she and the Abhorsen were seated in a moored barge, looking up at Torrigan as he approached them. He bowed awkwardly, unable to meet his mother's unimpressed glare.

"Mother, Abhorsen, I've been sent to tell you that supper is to be served shortly."

The Queen nodded, and let Torrigan help her out of the barge, followed by Abhorsen. The Abhorsen gave him a mock-scolding glare, then grinned, clapping a friendly hand on Torrigan's shoulder as the two followed the Queen back up the one hundred and fifty-six steps into the palace once more.

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_So that's it. Llamas, G-B!_


	6. A Happy Birthday

_Hiya! New chapter up! Gotta go 'cos food's up, so enjoy! G-B_

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**A Happy Birthday**

Rogir and Elsie crept down the hall, keeping on tiptoes and trying to avoid all the squeaky floorboards. It was eight o'clock in the morning, a cloudy, miserable-looking day, but they had still dragged themselves out of bed at seven-thirty. Now they were creeping around like spies, already dressed and wide awake. They paused at a closed door, holding their breaths as Rogir pressed his ear gently against the wood to see if the occupant was sleeping or not. Elsie watched in silence, barely able to suppress her excitement. She saw her brother frown slightly, forehead wrinkling as he strained to hear into the room past the solid door, then a sly smile spread across the Crowned Prince. He looked up at his sister and nodded. Without waiting for her consent, Rogir took hold of the doorknob and quietly began to open the door.

_Torrigan was running, chased by hideous shadows that seemed to melt out of the gloom around him. He was in a forest, hopelessly lost – nothing was familiar to him, nothing at all. The light was dim, made grimmer still by the close-knit canopies of the gnarled of the forest, so it was hard to tell if it was early morning or late evening. By the Charter, he hoped it was early morning! He'd never seen any of them up close before, only rough sketches in books and descriptions from people he knew, but he wasn't stupid enough not to realise what was happening. He was being chased. Chased by creatures of the Dead._

_Torrigan ran. He ran faster than he had ever done before, pushing his body to go faster and faster in order to get away, but his best efforts had been rewarded with shortness of breath, burning lungs, and weakening legs. And no matter how fast he ran, he still could not get away. They were there – the Dead – countless numbers of them following him, silent and deadly, melting in and out of the trees around him. They seemed to move at ease, always beside him, always behind him, but never in front of him. Never attacking. They were playing with him, like a cat does with a frightened, defenceless mouse. And then the person appeared._

"_Help!" Torrigan shouted to the man, who was little more than a shadow himself. "Please, help me!"_

_The man did not reply. Slowly, he drew a sword, burning with Charter marks, illuminating the area around him. Torrigan pulled up, horrified and surprised, as he saw the man step forwards towards him, sword and guard. The man did not seem in the least bit friendly, and Torrigan's hands jumped to his belt where his sword should be, but it wasn't there! There was a crack of the man's boots on twigs, and Torrigan looked up, only to meet the familiar eyes of Rogir. His brother smiled slightly, bowing his head, and then his sword was swinging down to meet Torrigan's waist, a strong and precise blow._

"_KERRIGOR, NO---!"_

Torrigan woke slowly, dazed. He whimpered slightly, rubbing frightened tears out of his eyes, forcing the bitter images of his dream out of his head. When he had calmed his breathing, Torrigan risked a glance up towards the window, only to see the first gleams of light filtering through the shutters. He smiled slightly, relaxing. It was still early, no need to drag himself out of bed at this time. Calmed by the thought of another half an hour or so of for a lie in, Torrigan snuggled back under the covers, warm and safe, far from the clutches of Death.

Something moved at the far end of his room, near the door. Torrigan tensed, afraid, suddenly paralysed to his bed by the irrational yet terrifying thought that the Dead creatures had managed to follow him out of his dreams and into the palace. The things – there were definitely two at least – drew closer to his bed, moving quietly, if not a little clumsily, as though trying not to be heard. One of them leaned over him, their breath hot on his cheek, and Torrigan screwed his eyes shut, too afraid even to look at the thing above him.

"TORRI, WAKE UP!" Rogir's voice boomed into his ear, making Torrigan yelp with fright and sit bolt upright in bed. "YOUR BED'S ON FIRE!"

"_What!_" Torrigan cried, leaping out of bed, his too-long nightshirt billowing about his ankles. He nearly trod on Rogir's feet, but as his brother burst out laughing he realised that the Crowned Prince's words had been his idea of a joke. The boy scowled, burying his face into his hands to try and calm the rising tide of anger that surged through him. "Kerrigor! I was _trying _to sleep."

"I know," Rogir laughed, then pulled Torrigan in for a too-tight hug. "Happy birthday, Loser."

"Whaf?" Torrigan gasped into his brother's shoulder.

"Rogir, let go of him!" Elsie snapped, and Rogir complied with a grin. Then Torrigan found himself lost in a hug from Elsie, too. "Aw, the little one's growing up! Surprise!"

"He's still the runt of the family," Rogir pointed out, throwing himself onto Torrigan's bed. "And he's still a loser. I suppose he's kind of cute," Rogir sighed, after a cold glare from Elsie, "but he _is _still a loser. C'mon, he wants to join the Guard, for Charter's sakes. The _Guard_! The boy's insane!"

"He's right!" Torrigan suddenly cried, pulling away from Elsie.

Rogir frowned and gave Elsie and confused glance. "I am? Do you mean I'm right that you're insane, because everyone knows that already, little brother."

Torrigan wasn't listening. He let out a whoop of joy, punching the air, leaping around the room in excitement. "I'm going to join the Guard! I can finally join the Guard!"

"Simple things please simple minds."

"Rogirek!" Elsie sighed, frustrated. "_Please _just be happy for him, will you? For once?" She caught Torrigan as he jumped past her, forcing him to sit down on his bed besides Rogir's feet. "Move your legs, Rogir. Thanks. All right, Torrigan, calm down! We know you're going to join, now calm down! You haven't even got your presents yet!"

Torrigan was still beaming from ear to ear. He shook his head, brown curls bouncing madly. "So _this _is what you and Kerrigor were arguing about in the solar," he said, grinning. "Eight o'clock." He punched Rogir lightly on the arm. "I _knew _you wouldn't have been helping Elsie with the festival dancing!"

"Torri, my friend, I would rather traverse my way through Death on my hands and knees, blindfolded, while singing the national anthem," Rogir replied simply. "Mind you, this simple 'surprise!' business seems all very trivial. Ihad a _much _better idea than little Princesses Play-By-The-Rules. _I _wanted to suspend you by the ankles from the ceiling for a while, or at least have you waking up down in the reservoir. But no, Elsiea had to put her foot down, didn't she?"

Elsie sighed and rolled her eyes. Then she smiled, eyes dancing mischievously. "I know, let's sneak down to the kitchens and pinch some of the party food, eh?" The two boys looked at her blankly. "I hear that the cooks have made chocolate truffles..." Immediately the two boys leapt to their feet with a joint whoop of delight.

"Erm...Torri? You're still in your nightshirt. Are you _really _going like that?"

_

* * *

_

The banquet in his honour had gone more smoothly than Torrigan had envisioned it would. He was glad when it was finally over, though, and the festivities could begin, mainly the music and dancing! Everyone was in a good mood, even Rogir, and as Torrigan slid into bed that night, tired but happy, he remembered his mother's laugh ringing through the hall as she watched her four children's feeble attempts at Torrigan's favourite party game Blind Man's Bluff.

Presents had been generous this year, Torrigan noted: a book of fighting Marks from Elsie, an ornament of a strange pixie-thing from Meredith, a fine tunic from his mother, and a real sword from Kerrigor! It was Charter marked, too, which would enable him to fight back against any of the Dead if he ever encountered them – not that he intended to encounter many Dead at all!

_Maybe it's inevitable_, Torrigan thought, closing his eyes against his darkenedroom. _What with the rise necromancers in the Kingdom, I'm bound to come across the Dead at _some _point. Just not soon, I hope._

Best of all, his sister had introduced him to Logan Frances. The Guardsman had smiled warmly at Torrigan, bowing slightly and shaking his hand as he wished Torrigan a happy birthday. And many returns, of course. Torrigan had been in shock –_ Logan Frances _was talking to _him_! He was practically Torrigan's idol! Not only was Logan rumoured to be one of the greatest things that had happened to his mother's security, but not only did he have the courage to have been in fearsome hand-to-hand combat with one of Belisaere's most notorious thieves by the age of eighteen, but he was also brave enough to participate in the Midsummer Festival.

They had talked for a while, much to Torrigan's joy. Logan outline to him briefly what would be expected of him in the Guard, what he would have to do in the first stages of training, but then added, with a grin, that he didn't see why Torrigan would have a problem. From what Logan had heard, Torrigan was more than capable of lifting a sword higher than his ankles, and shooting Charter Marks in a straight line.

_That's got to be praise indeed_, Torrigan's mind murmured on the brink of sleep. _And if L-Logan was being truthful about...half of the things he told me about the guard, I...I think I'm going...going to enjoy it...immensely._

_

* * *

_

The necromancer leant back in the boat, pulling back hard on the oars and propelling the little boat forwards along the river. Pausing momentarily, he glanced up at the glimmering lights coming from the nearby village at the other side of the bank, and guessed that it was Chasel. His blue eyes gleamed in dirty light of the lamp hovering, spelled, at the end of his boat, searching quickly for signs of the villagers before he decided what to do next.

Nothing moved on the banks, but he could hear the faint sounds of laughing and singing from inside the tavern. Oh, how he longed for a mug of spiced beer, but he had a job to do. There were people to find, minds to trick... He'd continue up past the village and on to the bridge, then he'd hide the boat and traverse the road until he came to Aunden. He could get a ferry from there, he was sure, and then it was only a short time before he'd find himself in Belisaere once more. The necromancer, pulled back on the oars again, closing his eyes as he remembered. He hadn't been to the capital since he'd become a necromancer some twelve years before, a year before the Queen gave birth to the bastard son of some self-important nobleman. The man was almost sad he'd left when he did – he heard that the capital had been in quite an uproar over the birth at the time.

Something moved on the bank opposite him, making the necromancer pause. His hand slipped to the sword at his side, but he was pretty sure that no Dead had been let loose around these parts. Not yet, at any rate.

"Hello?" The voice was that of a young man, peeking with fear and surprise. Obviously, he had not been expecting someone to be rowing up the river at this time of night. "Who's...who's there?"

"A traveller," the necromancer lied. Well, _half_-lied. "Don't worry, friend, I mean you no harm."

The boy on the bank edged closer, holding what looked like a fishing rod in his hand. He was young, the necromancer saw, about fifteen. He smiled – _just _the right age to start training. The young were always so more impressionable that the old. They thought they'd seen it all, until someone new – and _powerful_ – came along and showed them that, actually, they hadn't seen it all. But _they _could show them. He could see from the look in the boy's eyes that he would be one easily impressed by a little Free Magic.

"What's your name, boy?"

"Joss. What's it to you?"

"Catch the rope for me, would you, Joss?"

The necromancer loosened his sword just seconds before he flung the rope out to the boy. If this Joss boy would still not join him after seeing the power the necromancer could help him gain, the necromancer could always kill him. He dared not tell the boy who he really was, for no doubt his name was still well known around these parts, and might send the boy running for mummy at the mere mention of it. He could not risk that.

The necromancer helped the boy tie up the boat, then reached forwards and seized the boy by the shoulder as he made to turn, though not enough to hurt him. The terror that suddenly shone in the boy' eyes made little impression on the necromancer, but the fact that Joss had opened his mouth to scream did. The necromancer clamped his free hand over the boy's mouth, blue eyes just as commanding as his voice.

"Do not scream," he said quietly, the casual hostility about him making the boy begin to shake with fear. "If you do, I shall not hesitate to kill you. Understand?" The boy nodded eagerly. "Now, when I take my hand away from your mouth, you are _not_ going to scream. I want to show you something. All right?"

He released the boy's mouth but did not ease his grip on the boy's shoulder. The boy nodded for a moment, then an uneasy look flashed in his eyes. "All right," he said cautiously. "But nothing funny!"

"No, nothing funny," the necromancer reassured. "Just a little Magic."

Not only were the young easily persuaded by awe and a little flickering of lights, they were also easily persuaded by the useful little trick of intimidation.

* * *

_So that's it... Yay! Enjoy and eat well. Llamas, G-B_


	7. Flowers, Guards & Strangers In The Dark

_Disclaimer: I do not own any of the Garth Nix characters or stories! That needed to be said... Enjoy! ;0 _

**Flowers, Guards And Strangers In The Dark**

The Midsummer festival was upon them before Torrigan even realised it. His mother had never been happy with him wandering around the streets of Belisaere without a bodyguard or governess, but when Torrigan approached her with the question of whether he could accompany his new Guard friends into the city to see the festivities, she still proposed at least one bodyguard to follow them round. Rogir, the Queen explained frankly, never went into Belisaere alone for she always had one undercover guard tailing him wherever he went. And if the Queen asked Rogir to accompany Torrigan and his friends into the heart of Belisaere, he would only abandon his little brother to the hands of cut-throats, kidnappers and Charter only knew what else! Torrigan knew she was probably right, but it didn't stop the disappointment tainting the excitable mood of the festival morning.

"It's like she doesn't trust me!" Torrigan muttered to Elsie over breakfast, keeping his voice down so that the Queen would not overhear him. She was talking to Rogir – or arguing with him, from the sound of raised voices – but Torrigan didn't want to risk being banned from visiting the city altogether. "Maybe she doesn't even _want _to trust me."

"Sorry?" Elsie shook her head, looking nervous. "I wasn't listening. Oh, Torri, I'm going to forget all the steps, I know it! I'm going to make an fool out of myself!"

"Just make sure you don't step on Logan's feet, or smack him in the eye," Meredith whispered softly as she passed. "We don't want him to get an injury, do we? I mean, just _think _of the shame of it when Logan has to explain that the reason he was off duty was because the littlest Princess is a lumbering, clumsy ass!"

The argument which had ensued had distracted the Queen and Crown Prince from their own quarrels at the head of the table. After several minutes of shouting at one another, Meredith stormed out of the room in one direction, Elsie was dragged out by the Queen in another, and Rogir hauled a struggling Torrigan over to the open window and sloshed a cup of iced water in his face in order to cool his rage.

When Torrigan finally found himself roaming the streets with his five friends, he was calm once more, and awed by the sights and smells around him. He even forgot the grim-faced bodyguard who flanked him and his friends in the novelty of the day. People laughed with each other and danced in the streets in time to street performers' off-key instruments, vendors shouted out the prices for their delicious smelling foods from all across the Kingdom, and girls with yellow flowers darted in amongst the crowd, draping strings of sweet smelling blossom around cute boys' necks. The young Guardsmen all whistled and cheered as the first of their group was snared by one such flower girl, and the boy turned beetroot at the sound of his friend's jest. Torrigan couldn't help laughing too, but stopped abruptly as he felt a string of flowers brush down his neck. He glanced at the girl, surprised, hearing the renewed cheers and whistles coming from his friends.

"Thank you." Torrigan cringed inwardly, embarrassed by the fact that his formality had been his only way to overcome his initial shock. The girl winked in response, then darted back into the crowd the way she'd come.

The friends pushed on through the crowd, Torrigan ignoring the disapproving look that the bodyguard was shooting back over his shoulder in the direction the flower girl had run. It was only as the Prince and his chums were about to round the corner when Torrigan suddenly realized what was making the bodyguard so edgy: the flower girls were all handing out yellow flowers. The flowers on the two strands Torrigan and his friend had received were red. But why was that making the man so nervous?

Music started somewhere in front of him, making Torrigan immediately turn, forgetting the bodyguard. The parade had started! Still laughing and jesting, the five friends pushed their way forwards towards the main road, eager to see the approaching dancers and gymnasts. Torrigan peered through shoulders, jumping as high as he could in order to see over the sea of heads before them. Being in the streets like a normal civilian was so much better than sitting along side his mother in her little box! When he finally caught sight of Elsie amongst the dancers, Torrigan roared and clapped, almost deafening his friends. Unsurprisingly, he was not the only person cheering for the Princess, so Torrigan's enthusiasm did not make him stand out too much. Logan Francis, Elsie's dancer partner, was surprisingly not at her side. He was amongst the gymnasts that came after the dancers, not preforming the minor acrobatics the Guard usually preformed for displays, but far more intricate, stunning leaps and twists. The crowd immediately erupted into howls and cheers.

"Is there _nothing _that guy can't do?" shouted one of Torrigan's friends, then all five of them yelped in surprise as Logan landed on the ground right in front of them.

"Try keeping a smile – on your face while – trying to – breathe!" he gasped, then launched himself into a back flip in time with another gymnast.

Since joining the Guard, Torrigan had made friends with many of its other members, including Logan. The older Guard, though still young in face and body, took his young worshipers for gymnastic lessons and Charter skills. Torrigan was a natural, everyone with eyes could see that, and it had not been long until Torrigan had been given more books to read up on fighting Marks. Things couldn't have been better.

"Shall we go down to the main stand and see the actual dances?" someone yelled back. "I'd quite like to see how Logan fairs with the whole dancing thing – if he doesn't strain himself here, first."

Torrigan and his friends let out a shout of mutual agreement, and the boys immediately darted off towards the main stand, desperate not to miss the show. All the while, the glum-faced bodyguard forced his way along behind.

---

As Torrigan and his friends made their way back towards the palace, it was already growing dark. Lights had been lit around them, lighting their way through the uneven cobbles of the streets. Torrigan was still laughing, ducking a pretend punch one of the other boys threw at him. The bodyguard growled, unimpressed once more, then strode forwards as a play fight broke out amongst the boys. The Queen had told him that under no circumstances was Torrigan allowed to get into any fights. Before he could reach them, though, two of the boys shot off towards an alley, chasing a third and shouting, one of them strung round with a garland of red flowers. The bodyguard could not see the boys' faces through the dimming light. There was still one boy who wore a strand of red flowers amongst the two remaining, and the bodyguard seized him by the shoulder.

"Sir, I'm afraid I cannot let--" His voice trailed off. The boy with the red garland around his neck was not Torrigan.

Torrigan stopped running before he reached the end of the alley, shaking his head as he watched his two friends continue on. He lent back against the cool wall with a snort, grinning widely, when a hand suddenly reached out and grabbed his shoulder.

"What the--"

"Don't!" the stranger hissed quietly, making Torrigan's blood run cold. "I mean you no harm, boy."

"Who are you?" Torrigan demanded fiercely, feeling the stranger's fingers pull at the garland around his neck. "Tell me who you are!"

The man chuckled in response. "My, my, my, what a rude little boy I've found here! Did no one ever teacher you manners?" Torrigan made to pull away, but the pressure on his shoulder increased. "Oh, no, you don't!"

"Let me go!" Torrigan growled, feeling terror surging through his veins, fueling his anger. "I'm warning you!"

He tried to move once more, but the stranger pulled him back. Immediately Torrigan swung round to face the man, aiming hard and low, but the stranger grabbed his other arm. The man's fingers made to touch the Charter mark on Torrigan's forehead, but the boy ducked his head out the way, stamping down hard on the stranger's foot. He let out a yelp of pain. The string of flowers fell away from Torrigan's neck.

"Oi!" Torrigan was released. The bodyguard was racing up the alley towards them, freeing his sword. "You have no business with this boy!"

"Forgive me, kindly sir," the stranger hastened. "There has been a simple misunderstand--"

"Who are you?" the bodyguard growled, holding Torrigan back away from the stranger. He was cloaked, his face hidden by the heavy hood. "Remove that--"

"I am a traveler," the man said quickly. "That's all."

The bodyguard caught sight of Torrigan's two friends and called them back. The three boys hastened away from the bodyguard and stranger, heading back to the two other confused boys. The bodyguard waited for a moment, then rounded on the stranger once more. "Get out of my sight, and stay away from that boy!" he snarled. "Street filth!"

The stranger bowed his head, hand over heart. "I meant no dishonesty, sir," he said, and then he was gone.

---

"Curse and blazes!" the necromancer hissed, pacing the empty common room of the inn restlessly. His movements were watched by several young eyes. "That boy was strong. I could _feel _the Charter within him!" He glared at the watching teenagers before him, and spat, "He was more powerful than some of you."

"Why didn't you manage to get him?" someone asked hesitantly. "Wasn't he interested?"

"No, I didn't even get a chance to speak with him properly," the necromancer hissed. "And he had some sort of guardian with him. Curses and blazes to him, the little fool!"

"Uncle!" A girl popped her head around the door, grinning slightly. "Uncle, I must speak with you!"

The necromancer sighed wearily, nodding his head. "All right, Erin. The rest of you sorry excuses can get out of here!" The teenagers all rose, muttering under their breath, but the necromancer suddenly called one back. "Not you, Joss. I need to remind you why we never go near guards." Joss cringed, remembering his close encounter he'd had with one of the Queen's guards. "Erin, enter."

The girl swept in, dumping a basket with a few remaining red garlands within on a chair. She walked over to the necromancer, kissing him briefly on both cheeks. "I have found you a powerful one, Uncle. He is a...a _little _forward around women, but I'm sure you can overlook that."

"I don't need anyone who will be easily distracted," the necromancer snapped. "All right, Erinel. Where is he?"

Erin smiled, indicating the door. "He's just outside, with a group of friends. It wasn't hard persuading them to follow me here. There is another with him that might just be suitable for recruitment, but he is not as powerful."

"Bring him here, then."

Erin nodded, turning. As she passed the waiting youth, she grinned at him. "Evening, Joss." A few minutes later, she returned, dragging on the arm of a handsome young man, who in turn dragged a half drunk friend behind him. "Here they are, Uncle."

The necromancer glanced over the two youths before him, lips thin with disapproval. He took a step forwards, holding out a hand. "Good evening, sirs."

The young man let go of his friend's arm, and he immediately toppled to the floor, unable to control his snorting laughter. The young man rolled his eyes, turning back to shake the necromancer's hand. "Nice to meet you. Erm, why are we here? Oh, shut up, Giryl!"

"Why don't we sit down and discus this over a mug of beer?"

"I'd better not," the young man said with a grin. "Or else I'll end up like my friend. So, what proposition are you...proposing?"

_He is strong_, the necromancer thought, watching as his niece helped the drunken lad up off the floor. _But his is also arrogant. He also has a great thirst for knowledge and power, that is clear enough. _The man chuckled inwardly. _Oh, yes. This should be easy!_

"Have you been school in Charter Magic?" the necromancer asked, as they sat around the fireside a few minutes later. "What do you think of it? Is it a little...tame?"

"Of course I've been tutored in it," the young man replied. "Now you mention it, it _does _seem a little tame. But I suppose that's how it must be."

"Not always."

"Ah, then you would be speaking of Free Magic." The young man faltered, clearly guessing what the man before him was. "Is _this _what the subject of your proposal is?"

"You are clever, my young friend," the necromancer answered calmly. "Very clever. Charter Magic requires skill, I'll give you that, but Free Magic requires intelligence. Accuracy. You have those qualities, I can see."

"Are _you_ clever?" the young man retorted stiffly. "You are talking about...darker matters than are allowed in this city. And if you really are what I think you are, you are risking your life."

"I have spelled the area," the necromancer reassured, then took a large swig of beer. "No one shall overhear. No one of importance, anyway."

"Are you so sure?"

The necromancer sighed. _He thinks he's so important. Oh, dear. _"I am proposing you join me, good sir. Test yourself, allow yourself the chance to try your hand at an art far more intricate and worthy than the simple confinements of Charter Magic. I could make you powerful! I could make you even more powerful than the Abhorsen."

The young man snorted. "And say I _was _tempted. Would you except anyone who was willing enough into your...group?"

"Status, wealth, family, it--"

"Would you?" The young man held the necromancer's gaze calmly, eyes demanding an answer. No, _ordering _an answer. "I'm interested."

"Good," the necromancer answered, setting down his mug. "Then I will require your name."

"Rogir." The young man hesitated, glancing back at Joss and Erin. "Prince Rogirek."

"_What!_" The necromancer stared at the young man before him, the started to laugh helplessly. The other two followed his example. "Oh, my dear boy, that is a hearty jest!"

"Check my Charter mark if you want," Rogir growled, offended. "You shall see that I do not lie."

The necromancer smirked, standing and holding out his hand. He touched the Charter mark on Rogir's forehead, then withdrew his hand with a hiss of surprise. "You...you really _are _the Crown Prince!"

"I said I wasn't lying," Rogir replied tartly. "Now, does your offer still stand? Or are you too scared to take the risk? You should be more careful as to who you make your propositions to."

The necromancer sat back down in his seat, staring dumbly at the Prince before him. He turned suddenly, shooting a furious glare at his niece, who hung her head. Why had the foolish girl brought him a Prince! Of the thousands of people in Belisaere on the day of the Midsummer festival, and she had to bring him a Prince! And yet the Prince had seemed sincere enough. He did not seem likely to run to his mummy up in the palace and tell of his encounter in the inn, and it was true enough that he had an interest in Free Magic. It was wavering with the realisation that he would not be able to really understand its full potential for damage, destruction, death, but if the necromancer managed to enroll the boy, rekindle that youthful fancy...

"Can I trust you?" the necromancer asked darkly, glaring at the boy with his icy blue eyes afire with threat. "You are close to both the Queen and Abhorsen."

"I do not care for the Abhorsen," Rogir answered truthfully. "You can trust me, I swear. If your willing to teach me, then I am more than willing to learn."

---

_Ooooh! That's it, and Rogir is being a bit of an idiot. Silly boy! Hope you enjoyed this chapter! Llamas, Ginger-Bizkit :)_


	8. Fate Is The Cruellest Blow Of All

_Disclaimer: I do not own any of the Garth Nix characters or stories. And a BIG thank you to datswututink, mazangerine de chagny, milky, and PurpleLight! (in alphabetical order, of course!) Cheerios! Enjoy..._

**Fate Is The Cruellest Blow Of All **

**Two years later...**

The sword glittered in the midday sun. Torrigan faced his attacker with a calm face and loose body, watching the older boy before him with his already envied alertness. The boy held the sword at guard, watching Torrigan for the slightest sign of weakness.

_Fool_, Torrigan thought with grim satisfaction. _We can stand around here all day waiting for you to find some heavy limb or sluggish movement, but I'm not going to move. Not until you do, at least. _Torrigan kept his grey eyes locked onto his attacker's own hazel ones. _The eyes never lie. The eyes never lie. I will know when to move_.

The older boy's eyes flashed seconds before he lunged at Torrigan, but Torrigan swerved, ducking the blade. Again the boy swung at him, but Torrigan raised his shield and blocked the blow. The two boys looked at each other and scowled.

"Again!" Logan shouted from the fence of the practice court, as the two boys stepped away from one another. "Bran, keep on your toes! Torrigan, just...just try and block him with your own sword next time!"

"Ready?" Torrigan asked the boy before him. He smirked in answer, then lunged once more. Torrigan raised his sword, meeting the other boy's with a clang of metal. Now it was Torrigan's turn to attack, and he leapt sideways, confusing his opponent, only to smack the blunt sword against the thick padding of the boy's back.

"And you're dead!" Logan shouted, vaulting the fence and marching over to them. He did not look impressed. "Bran, why aren't you concentrating? Do you want to end your life with a sword sticking out your body? No, I thought not." He turned to Torrigan, frowning slightly. "Good work, Torrigan. As usual, I don't have much to say about your tactics except...keep up the good work."

Torrigan saluted, hiding his smile. "Thank you, sir."

Logan nodded, ordered them to continue their practice, then walked on to break up an argument that had broken out between two of the new recruits. Torrigan had been in the Guards for two years now, and his fighting skills had only grown from strength to strength. Over time, though, he had made equally just as many good friends as he had good enemies. He'd broken more bones than bared thinking about, but there was always someone nearby ready to lay a few healing marks on him to fix the break before the Court Doctor was needed. His Charter Magic had also improved, though Torrigan did not like using it during fighting, for it made him feel as though he were somehow cheating, even though all of the Guard were Charter Mages. He was the best in his year at conjuring an arrow ward, and he could make shields appear almost as quickly as Logan could. All in all, many of the boys were either awed by Torrigan's skills, or envied them with a vengeance.

"C'mon, Torrigan," his opponent sneered. "Pull your head out of the clouds and fight me already!"

Torrigan bit back an angry retort and clenched his sword tightly. His anger was also feared greatly amongst his fellows, since he had lost his cool once during a fight with the opponent he faced now. The result had not been pleasant, but it taught the Guard to treat Torrigan with more respect than he had first intended to do. Although the Guardsmen usually treated Torrigan no differently than they would anyone else,the boy refused to stand for people such as Bran making unkind jests about him.

Metal clashed on metal again as Torrigan attacked. Bran swung at Torrigan's arm, but his shield was already raised to meet it before it could hit him. Torrigan skirted around Bran, blocking another blow, then leapt high above the blade as Bran swung towards his ankles. He landed, lunged, deflected another swing, then bit his lip hard enough to draw blood as he fought Bran back towards the practice yard's fence. People had stopped their own practising to watch the two fight, but Torrigan was too lost in his own concentration to notice. Suddenly, Bran lost his footing falling back. He hissed slightly as Torrigan's blade gently kissed his neck, looking up the angled blade into Torrigan's eyes.

"Well played, _sir_," he growled, then allowed Torrigan to pull him back up onto his feet.

"You're dead _again_!" Logan shouted, appearing at their shoulders. "Charter help you, Bran, Torrigan is younger than you and you can't even beat him!" He glanced at Torrigan. "No offence meant, of course."

"Don't worry about it," Torrigan replied, grinning slightly. "I don't--"

"Torrigan!" He spun, surprised. Elsie was hurtling towards the practise courts, her face pale and distraught. Torrigan was about to run to her, but someone had vaulted the fence already, running to steady the Princess as she stumbled to a hault. Logan.

"Elsie, what's wrong?" Torrigan asked, leaping over onto the soft grass after Logan. He was steadying Elsie, face frowning and full of concern. There was obvious hopelessness in Elsie's eyes, and it filled Torrigan with dread. "What's happened?"

"I can't tell you here," Elsie said, her voice calm yet wavering. She took a step away from Logan, nodding in gratitude, then beckoned to Torrigan. "You have to come with me right away."

Shedding the sweltering padding, Torrigan darted after his sister as she turned and sprinted back up towards the main palace building beyond. It was only when they neared a cool, deserted passageway that Torrigan dared to try and coax a little more information out of his sister. "Can you tell me now?"

"It's...it's the Abhorsen," Elsie whispered, tears filling her eyes. "I think... Mother said... A messenger from the Clayr has arrived bearing 'dire news'. Oh, Torrigan, I hope nothing has happened to him!"

"He'll be fine," Torrigan found himself saying automatically. "Come on, we can't leave Mother waiting."

Five minutes later, Torrigan and Elsie stood besides Rogir, watching as the Queen greeted the messenger humbly. It was a woman with tanned skin and luxuriously blond hair. One of the Clayr, Elsie had said, and Torrigan frowned as he watched the woman speak to his mother. He had few memories from the last time he had met any of the Clayr, and those that he did have were of kindly faces cooing at his three-year-old self. He turned to Rogir, opening his mouth to speak, but Rogir merely nudged him. His short sideways glance told Torrigan that Rogir had no intention of speaking with him until _after _the Clayr had delivered her message. Torrigan had nothing to say in response to that and kept his mouth shut.

"The Abhorsen says he knows who is behind all of the Free Magic attacks, and the rise in necromancer numbers," the Clayr finally said, making the four Royal children lean forwards to hear better. "He says it is Haydn Piran."

"Piran?" The Queen frowned, looking shamelessly worried. "But I was led to believe that he was killed years ago."

"It is he," the Clayr answered sadly. "We have looked as one and Seen that it is so. We also fear that he has been recruiting throughout the capital, Ma'am. We do not know yet what his motives are, though we are putting all of our best Seers onto it."

"Who's Haydn Piran?" Torrigan whispered, frowning. He was sure he'd heard the name before, but where?

"He was one of the Kingdom's most notorious necromancers ever," Rogir replied grimly. "He attacked a fishing village once, at the zenith of his power, and let around six hundred men, women and children be killed by Dead creatures. Most of those spirits he brought back as Hands. Some call him a madman, some call him a murderer. Most just call him a monster."

"And now he's back," the Clayr said, meeting Torrigan's eyes for a split second. He jumped, realising that she could only have been about three years older than himself. She looked up at the Queen, and said, "His young recruits have all been chosen because of power and selfishness. The more innocent ones were scared into joining Piran. He has about two hundred strong followers at this time."

The Queen turned her head, looking sickened. "Then we shall have to fight back. We must send warnings out to villages and towns, curfew the young, powerful, and easily influenced. Why did we not know of this before?"

The Clayr shifted uneasily. "Too few of us realised what we Saw until it was too late. Forgive us, Ma'am."

The Queen nodded, then glanced towards her children. "Rogir, tell me, have you heard anything about a necromancer being active through the city?"

"Rumours," Rogir replied with a shrug. "There was nothing substantial to go on. Drunks ramblings, that was all."

"So _why _did you not inform me?" the Queen demanded. "Thousands could _die _now, and--"

"It would hardly be _my _fault!" Rogir growled heatedly. "It's not like I invited the necromancer through the gates of Belisaere, is it? If I can help amend the situation, I will, though I am not sure how one man will defeat two hundred necromancers. I thought that was the Abhorsen's job."

"Hold your tongue!" the Queen ordered, the turned back to the Clayr. "All right. You may go, though I suppose you will be needing to remain here in Belisaere for a while?"

The Clayr blushed. "Only until I can get supplies for the return journey. Ma'am, I... I do have another message... The Abhorsen was attacked by Piran and overwhelmed. We don't know how long he will live. He might die yesterday."

The Queen sat very still, ignoring the horrified gasps from her children. Closing her eyes as though sharing the Abhorsen's agony, she nodded her head. "I knew this would come. Then you may stay, messenger of the Clayr, here in the palace and rest for a while, before you set off back home," the Queen stated, the rose to her feet. "Meredith, Elsiea, Torrigan, you may depart as well. Rogirek, remain here!"

"Good luck," Torrigan muttered, patting Rogir on the back as he made to leave. Rogir's face was set, eyes narrowed, and it looked as though he was mentally preparing himself for what would not doubt develop into another fierce argument between mother and son, an occurrence that had grown more and more common over the past few years.

When all four people had left the room, the Queen turned to her heir, a stern look on her face. Rogir noted the familiar flash in her eyes, the throbbing vein at the side of her temple, and braced himself for a yelling that would echo around the hall for minutes to come.

"HOW _DARE_ YOU NOT INFORM ME OF...!"

Thirty minutes later, Rogir was finally dismissed from his furious mother's presence. His throat was sore from shouting back at the Queen, trying to defend himself. It wasn't _his _fault Haydn Piran was wreaking havoc all across the Kingdom, and it certainly was not his fault that the Abhorsen had been attacked by some vicious Dead thing and nearly lost his arm! His mother was trying to find someone to blame and, as usual, that scapegoat was Rogir himself.

"Your Highness?" Rogir froze at the sound of his title. He turned, meeting the blue-eyed gazed of the Clayr messenger. "I'm sorry that I got you into so much trouble. I hope I didn't get you into too much trouble."

"Hardly your fault," Rogir replied scathingly. "Mother and I haven't argued like that for about – oh – four days. We were due to have a clash sooner or later." He glanced at the still guilty-looking Clayr. A small smile twitched the corner of his mouth, remembering the stories he had heard of the Clayr. They may have been part of the Great Charter bloodline, Seers of the future and all that jazz, but another, nastier word also came to mind. "It's honestly not your fault...erm... I trust you have a name?"

"Yanyl," the girl answered, then snorted. "I know, it's the same as the settlement and the river. My mother Saw something about it before I was born, and declared to the midwife that that would be my name. She...she didn't live to see me baptised in the Charter. My mother could have been a little kinder to me. I hate my name."

Rogir grinned beside himself, shaking his head. "I think it's quite funny. No offence, I mean, but... Do you want to go get a drink or something?"

The Clayr, Yanyl, frowned. "Is that wise? The Queen...didn't seem to pleased with me. Maybe that was just the news."

"You're just the messenger." Rogir shrugged. "Come on, I'm not taking 'no' for an answer. You look tired, lost, and I think a nice warm drink is exactly what you need."

---

Torrigan sat on the grass bank, cleaning the exercise sword with as much care and time as he cleaned his own. His clothes reeked with the effort of his day's exercise, and his thoughts kept straying to the inviting bath that he would have as soon as he was relieved from his more menial chores of the guard. He was glad Abhorsen wasn't dead, though he sounded badly wounded in some way, but the news that the Clayr had brought about Haydn Piran was even more...disturbing, to say the least. He wondered if the Queen had finished shouting at Kerrigor yet?

"You've missed as spot, Torrigan," someone said from behind, shaking Torrigan out of his thoughts. He turned, glancing back over his shoulder, only to see Bran and a group of the boy's friends standing in a semi-circle about him. His gut tightened out of suspicion. "Dear, dear! You'd think after years of watching servants doing the cleaning for him, Torrigan would have learnt how to clean a simple sword."

"Go away, Bran," Torrigan sighed, retuning to his work. "I have neither the energy nor the time to start an argument with you."

The young Guardsman merely sneered. "Sure you don't. You said that last time, _before _you punched me in the gut. What are you going to do this time? Break my arm?"

_Just get up and walk away_, Rogir had told Torrigan after his last fight with the Guardsman. _It's not worth getting yourself all steamed up about – though I'm sure he deserved what he had coming to him. _

Fighting back a growing anger, Torrigan pushed himself to his feet, picked up the sword, and made towards the command post. The boys began to follow. That really irritated Torrigan, and he clenched his hand tighter on the hilt of the sword. He could not block their childish, if not annoying shouts from penetrating his reddening ears.

"Crazy fruit loop!"

"Berserker!"

"Wanna be!"

_Go away! _Torrigan pleaded silently, taking deep, calming breaths. _I don't know how much longer I can keep calm. _

Then one word caught his attention. Torrigan spun round, fury dancing in his eyes. He knew he should carry on walking, get back inside the palace, away from these... "_What _did you call me?"

Bran smirked. "It means 'illegitimate', idiot. Didn't you know that?"

"Just...just _get out _of here!" Torrigan ordered, turning once more. "I never realised how much of a sore loser you were."

"Me?" the boy laughed mockingly. "I never realised how much of a sore loser you were, not able to take the truth even now. Don't treat us like idiots, Torrigan – we know just as well as you do."

_Know what? _Torrigan forced the question out of his head. He felt sick with fear. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"Of course not," Bran spat. "That's what the palace said after it happened, wasn't it? I must say, you're putting on a very good act. But that's all it is – an act."

Torrigan felt his blood roaring in his head, and he spun to face the boys, mouth restrained from twisting into a snarl. "_What _is an act?" he shouted. "I have no idea what you're talking about! Tell me what you're talking about."

"You know." Bran smirked, then sang, "The Queen's consort weren't your father."

Torrigan's eyes narrowed. "That's a lie! He..." _Elsie said Father died before she was born_, a voice within him said, making Torrigan frown. _You know that. And you were born two years later. You've always wandered why – you've never asked. You haven't had the courage. You're afraid of the truth. _

_That's a lie_, Torrigan found himself thinking back. _I'm the son of the Queen and the consort. Elsie was confused, that was all. I _am _that son of the Queen and her consort! _

"Why don't we call you 'Your Highness'?" Bran sneered.

Torrigan found himself relaxing, knowing the answer well. "I'm not called 'Prince' because there is an abundance in heirs to the throne. We don't need four heirs, and the Queen decided that it would lessen any resentment after her death if I, the youngest child, was not titled as my siblings are."

"Or maybe it's because you're not _pure _enough to be titled, like your siblings are," the boy sneered back. "C'mon, you know it's the truth. The whole _Kingdom _knows it's the truth."

_The whole Kingdom... _Torrigan blinked. All the questions that he had ever wanted to ask surfaced once more, all the loose ends, all the facts that didn't _quite _make sense. _All of the Kingdom knew..._

_The truth. _Torrigan felt the world disappear around him. He felt suddenly sick, lost, and he stared blankly towards the other boys, too stunned to say anything. He was... He wasn't... The sword fell from his hands with a thud.

Red filled his vision, blood screaming in his ears and head, muscles tensing with fury. Torrigan suddenly lost it, unable to control the absolute rage that had come from that moment of helplessness. With a roar of rage, Torrigan threw himself at Bran, attacking the older boy with surprising force. The boy tried to fight back, punching Torrigan in the stomach, but he barely noticed, and merely picked up Bran and threw him into the watching group of stunned boys. They all fell as one, screaming, and Torrigan had one last glimpse of his fist connecting with Bran's face, a horrible crack sounded, and Torrigan was suddenly inside the palace, leaning against a wall. He looked up, too shaken to say or do anything. What had he done?

Terrified, shaken and alone, Torrigan found his mind urging him onwards. But where was he headed? He stumbled, forgetting momentarily where he was. The Old Kingdom? Oh great, like _that _wasn't a vague answer! Belisaere... The palace? Home?

_Kerrigor_. Torrigan frowned, determined to ignore the tears that ran humiliatingly down his cheeks in an unstoppable flow. _I have to find Kerrigor!_

A shout from behind him. It was Logan, Torrigan realised, and he sounded furious. So Bran had shown him the beating Torrigan had given him in payment for the revelation. So soon? Charter curse him, that boy was such a weed!

"Torrigan, get back here! NOW!"

Biting his lip hard so as to pull himself back from yet another rage, Torrigan pushed himself away from the wall and began to run.

---

_That's it! Llamas, away! G-B!_


	9. Brother Dearest?

_Disclaimer: I do not own any of Garth Nix's characters or stories. To Ned - my brother in a fur coat. You're cute, kind-hearted, yet you are still a seal. Everyone else, please enjoy! _

**Brother Dearest?**

Torrigan ran. He ran until he felt his heart would surely burst, until his sight became so blurry he didn't know whether it was due to tears or to sweat. But he had to get away from those other trainee Guardsmen. He had to get away from Bran; he had to find his brother… Or _was_ it his brother? Was Kerrigor his brother? Were Meredith and Elsiea actually his sisters? Was he even called Torrigan? _Who _was Torrigan? His name – that one last shred of identity – had been wiped away with him and his whole life, for who was this Torrigan? The untitled son of the Queen, not called 'Prince' because of the abundance in heirs to the throne, or the bastard son of the Queen, not called 'Prince' because he was not pure enough to bear such a title?

Torrigan ran because it would clear his anger. He ran because it was something he was good at. He didn't know anything. Questions buzzed in his mind, confusing him, until the sound grew to an unbearable roar, like a waterfall crashing against the broken rocks of his life. Torrigan ran, so that he might reach Rogir as quickly as possible. By the Charter, he _had _to speak to Kerrigor! He would talk to his brother, even if it meant dying first!

Rogir's chambers were there, just around that corner! Torrigan almost forgot to make the turn, and he very nearly collided with the wall, but that didn't stop him. Heart thudding in his mouth, drums pounding in his ears, Torrigan flung himself at Rogir's door, trembling hands fumbling blindly at the doorknob. He pushed. The door stood firm. Rogir had locked it!

"Rog... Kerrigor!" Torrigan shouted, unable to stop his voice from breaking with tears. "Kerrigor! Kerrigor, open this door!"

There was silence for a moment, a terrible, aching stretch of stillness that tore at Torrigan's heart and soul. His brother was purposefully ignoring him, he knew, and suddenly Torrigan saw red. He clenched his hands into fists, eyes narrowing against the tears that poured down his cheeks, determined and furious. He would talk with Rogir! He would talk with Rogir, even if it meant breaking down the door with his bare hands!

"ROGIREK!" Torrigan bellowed madly, punching madly at the door with all his might. "ROGIREK! OPEN – THIS – _DOOR_!"

"Go away!"

The sound of Rogir's voice brought Torrigan back to his senses. He stepped away from the door, finding himself grimacing with pain. His hands hurt, throbbed more painfully than any knife cut he'd received in training before. There was blood on the door now, fresh, but Torrigan couldn't place it. He stepped forwards, confusion clear in his grey eyes, reaching out to touch the blood, and then let out a small cry of horror as he saw the blooded backs of his hands, his skin torn at the knuckles by his enraged punching. He felt sick then, the world threatening to spin around him. He let his fingers touch the blood, felt the iciness of his life source beneath the tips of his fingers, and a lump appeared in his throat. This blood was half of the Queen's, half of…half of…

"Kerrigor," Torrigan wept, swaying violently from side to side. He grabbed at the door frame to steady himself. "Kerrigor, please! I need to speak with you, brother… Kerrigor, _please!_"

There was silence for a moment, a hush in the chambers beyond. Torrigan began to feel worse. His giddiness was increasing, eyes becoming blurrier and darker, and still the drums beat relentlessly into his head. Faintly, Torrigan thought he heard his brother talking to someone in his chambers, and it slowly occurred to Torrigan that Rogir might have company. But this was far more important, far, far, far, far, far more…

There was the click of the lock being turned from inside the room, and Rogir's annoyed voice beyond, a controlled temper kept well at bay. "This had better be serious, Torrigan! If I've told you one then I've told you a thousand times: if my door is locked, I don't want— Hey!"

Rogir leapt back away from the door as Torrigan stumbled into his chambers. Rogir was taken a back for a moment, to see his brother still in his Guard uniform and in such a terrible state. Something had clearly upset him. Then Rogir saw Torrigan's hands.

"By the Charter, Torri…" His voice trailed off, looking up into his brother's face. Torrigan stared back, eyes red and tearing madly, sobbing as he tried and failed miserably to look the Crowned Prince in the eye. "Your hands are bleeding. Who's done this to you, Torri? Tell me! Tell me, and I'll smash their Charter cursed faces––"

"No one…did…this," Torrigan sobbed wretchedly. "I…did…this. I…hurt…myself…in order…to see…you."

"What the…" Rogir whispered, shaking his head in disbelief. "That's it, little brother. I'm calling mother, and I'm calling the court doctor."

"Dear Charter, not _him_!"

"Torrigan, you need help! Look at you, Torri, you're not right in the head, and I mean that this time! What happened to provoke this rage? Who made you do this? Did someone say something to you; _do _something to you? For the love of all necromancy, Torri, tell me what the hell happened!"

"Rogir?"

Rogir's back stiffened at the sound. A blond girl stood in the doorway of his bedroom, one of Rogir's own dressing gowns wrapped around her slender shoulders. She suddenly noticed Torrigan, met his horrified eyes, and the girl let out a small cry of alarm. Torrigan recognised the girl instantly: it was Yanyl, the messenger from the Clayr. Obviously she had 'captivated' Rogir's heart. She wasn't the first girl, and she certainly wouldn't be the last.

Torrigan had never once doubted that sooner or later, Rogir would sweat talk one of the servants or the daughter of some visiting noble into his bed, and do to her all the hideous-sounding things that the court doctor had once lectured Torrigan about. After all, it had been a long time since Rogir had had a serious relationship. But that wasn't what had thrown Torrigan. What had thrown him was the realisation that _this _was what his mother must have done. She must have allowed that…_that man _to sweat talk her into his bed, and let him hug her, let him kiss, let him love her. For all Torrigan knew, he might be the unplanned result of a one-night stand. He felt suddenly terrified; terrified by the thought that his mother might have been horrified when she found out that she was with child once more. She might not have wanted him at all! But she had been lumbered with him, whether she wanted him or not. Maybe that was why she kept him, as a reminder of that one fateful night, her punishment for betraying the memory of her ever-loving consort.

He was a mistake.

He was a burden.

He was a punishment

He was a bastard.

He was living a lie.

Torrigan swayed more violently this time, clutching at his head and moaning with the pain and the anguish of his soul-burning questions. He felt Rogir's hands on his shoulders, felt the Crown Prince shake him roughly back and forth, and heard the young man calling anxiously to him.

"Torrigan! Torrigan, what's wrong? What is it? Charter damn you, little brother, _speak to me_!"

"I'm…n-not your b-brother," Torrigan whispered. Then the facts of which he spoke of really hit home, hitting him with all the force of a ten-tone weight, and suddenly the world spun a whole 360 degrees inside his head. "Kerrigor!" Torrigan gasped, as the world faded away into the blackness of unconsciousness around him. "Help me!"

Then Torrigan fainted, falling forwards into Rogir's unprepared arms.

_---_

_Short, sweet and simple. Please tell me what you thought of it! Thank you, Ginger-Bizkit. _


	10. Delayed Stories And Horrific Nightmares

_Yay! It's another beautiful day in Llama Land for me! Me no owning Garth Nix's stories or characters. Please enjoy... ; ) Thanks again to PurpleLight - your support is greatly appreciated! _

**Delayed Stories And Horrific Nightmares**

Joss had come a long way since the necromancer, Haydn Piran, had picked him up in the boat some two years previously. He was now one of Piran's favourites, and one of his best students. There was no way he outdid the Prince, of course, who found no spell too hard and no summoning too small, but Joss could certainly fight better. He had at first resented the Prince, hating the way he went around all la-de-da as though he owned the place. Being a Prince, that was probably just a result of getting whatever he wanted whenever he wanted it, yet it still annoyed many of the young recruits to the point that they shunned the Prince. Equally as many and more of the young necromancers _loved _the Prince, hero worshipping him and praising his every little achievement. Now, though, Joss was on very good terms with the Prince, and it was almost a shame that he was not here to see the fun.

_Rogir would have enjoyed this, I'm sure_, Joss thought to himself, as he and five others wound their way through the creaking trees silently towards the sleepy village. Joss lead them until they could see the outskirts of the blissfully unaware village, looking out under his heavy, dark hood towards the flickering lights of the houses. Everything was peaceful, quiet. _Time to shake things up a bit!_

He drew his sword, the signal for the others to start. Whispering the names of the Marks, the six necromancers felt the visualised Marks flow from their minds, down to their arms and into the tips of their outstretched hands. They circled, whispering, chanting in their eerie song until the words vibrated in the air around them. The forest began to reek of Free Magic, a vile stench that made many people retch. Finally, on the boundary of his trance, Joss heard things moving in the trees around him. He smiled thinly: the Hands had arrived.

The six necromancers quietened as the Dead paused in front of them, their horribly disfigured bodies tense and alert, as though eager for their orders. Joss stepped forwards holding out his hand towards the nearest Hand. Dead flesh squelched beneath his hand, icy and rancid on his living skin. They were newly summoned, strong for the moment, and with the Abhorsen injured... Joss chuckled softly, wiping his hand on the fold of his cloak.

"Kill them. Kill them all."

Gurgling and screeching, the Dead Hands turned and threw themselves towards the defenceless village, watched by the patient necromancers that had called them. Joss and his fellows waited in the shadows, listening to the screams of the villagers beyond, waiting until the last one finally died. When the terrified shrieks had subsided, Joss hefted the weight of his sword, glancing at his fellows.

"We know our orders," Joss snapped to the others. "Now, let's go chain some spirits to our will for the benefit of our master."

Wordlessly, the necromancers moved forwards towards the destructions that awaited them beyond the fringes of the trees where the darkness had hidden them like the soft veil of a mourning widow.

**---**

"What did he mean?" Rogir demanded, marching besides his mother as she hurried down the corridor towards Torrigan's room. "Mother? For Charter's sakes, why did Torrigan tell me that he wasn't my brother?"

"He _is_, isn't he?" Elsie asked worriedly, looking at her mother's pale face. "Mother? Torrigan's been around since I can remember."

"And I remember the day he was born," Rogir said firmly. "I remember saying he looked like a troll, and the nanny scolded me something awful in return. Mother?"

The Queen suddenly rounded on her two children, her face sickly and full of fear. Still, she still managed a fearsome glare. "I _will not speak_ of this matter to you! Do you understand me? Now, leave me! I must...speak with Torrigan."

"Let me help you," Rogir offered. "He's not going to be happy to see you, I bet."

"No." The Queen hesitated. Rogir was right, of course: Torrigan would probably prefer not to see her for...the rest of his life. "Thank you, Rogirek. I can manage this myself."

"Well, it's your funeral. Look what he did to that stupid guardsman. Again." The Queen glared at Rogir once more, and he immediately grabbed Elsie by the arm and hauled her off down the corridor the way they'd come. "Come on, Elsie. We're not _wanted_ here."

The Queen watched them leave until they'd disappeared round the corner. Sighing, Iolanthe turned back to converse the rest of the stretch of corridor to Torrigan's room. She felt sick with fear: how had she allowed Torrigan to find out? Charter help her, this had not been planned at all.

_Maybe it is best he finds out now_, Urien's voice told her quietly. _He doesn't take well to surprises – like mother like son, eh?_

_This isn't helping! _Iolanthe thought back, frustrated and confused. _Oh, I am so afraid that he shall hate me for the rest of his life! I could not live with myself if that happened._

_It shan't_, the voice of Urien told her casually. _Torrigan might have issues, but he isn't an idiot. He will see sense sooner or later. Just tell him the truth, the whole truth, and hope he can forgive more easily than we could. _

Iolanthe paused at the door of Torrigan's chambers, hand poised and ready to knock. She hesitated, frowning. _Urien? Why am I hearing your voice?_

_Why not?_

_You're dead. I'm not supposed to be able to hear your voice. You've passed the Ninth Gate. Haven't you? _Iolanthe listened, but the voice seemed to have retreated to the back of her mind. She shook her head, putting it down to the stress she was under at that moment, then knocked on the door. No answer. "T-Torrigan? Love? It's...it's me. May I come in?"

There was silence for a moment, but Iolanthe could hear Torrigan hovering at the other side of the door. A fist suddenly connected with the door, making the Queen jump, and Torrigan's voice boomed through the wood, "_I don't want to talk to you!_"

"Torrigan, calm down!" Iolanthe begged, suddenly fearful for her son. "Torrigan, _please_, let me in. I have to speak to you."

The door was wrenched open, revealing a furious-looking Torrigan. The boy was nearly as tall as his mother, his grey eyes dark and full of loathing. Iolanthe reached out, trying to stroke his cheek, but Torrigan jerked back, a venomous look in his face. He stepped back, bowing as the Queen entered his room. His voice was dry when he said, "What brings you up here?"

Iolanthe turned to look at him as he spoke, biting her lip. "You know, Torri. And I'm...I'm sorry." Torrigan slammed the door shut in response and stalked over to a chair. "Torrigan, please, just control your rage. I may have hurt you, but I'm still your Queen. No one would dare to act like this before me, and it grows thin even now."

"Oh, so you make a habit of lying to those who love you most, is that right?"

"Torrigan!" The Queen cursed inwardly, reminding herself that Torrigan _would _act like this. He did look extremely hurt behind all that anger. "I heard you hurt yourself. Are your hands better now?"

"Aren't you more worried about Bran? Rogir said I've broken his nose in two places, broken his jaw, and given him a glorious shiner." Torrigan clenched his fists. "Yes. My hands are much better now." He suddenly looked up the nervous Queen, scowling. "I want answers."

"I understand, my dear."

"The truth."

"Of course."

"No more lies."

Iolanthe nodded dumbly. "I'd never lied to you, Torrigan. I...I never meant to hurt you like this. Believe me, my dear. I--"

"Am I your son or not?" Torrigan asked angrily. "Is that why I have no title?"

"Yes, you are my son," whispered Iolanthe quietly. "I carried you for nine months, gave you life, gave you your name, cared for you, provided for you. And if you want a title, I can give you one."

"No," Torrigan growled. "I don't want one. I want the truth, nothing else. Is my father your consort, or...someone else?" He spat the last two words out with such venom that Iolanthe shied back, afraid.

"No, the consort is not...your father." Pain flared in Iolanthe's heart as she spoke. She stopped, fighting back tears, but Torrigan did not look sympathetic in the least. "He was a lord from up north. He was named Urien, and he was your father. Charter forgive me, Torrigan, I loved that man more than I can even begin to tell you! Your father was so dear to me, and it broke my heart when he died."

Torrigan flinched, looking away from his mother. He looked disgusted. "My father's dead? How...how old was I?" He nearly missed his mother's answer. "What? I wasn't even... How _could_ you?"

Iolanthe felt as though her heart were breaking as her son suddenly leapt from his seat and punched viciously at the wall in his anger. Urien had never been so violent, and Torrigan's rage Iolanthe immediately took as being a sign of hatred towards the man who should have been their to raise him. When he'd calmed enough, Torrigan leant against the wall, sobbing with anguish. Unable to restrain herself, Iolanthe began to tell her story to him, too scared to lie to her son or leave anything out. Once she'd finished, Torrigan had calmed enough to step away from the wall and shake his head.

"Is that true?" he asked quietly.

"Every word. Your father was one of the kindest, gentlest men I've ever met in my life. I wish...I wish you two could have met."

Torrigan nodded, clenching his fists once more. "I don't. Personally I'm glad that repulsive cad is dead."

"How dare you!" Iolanthe shouted, shocked by Torrigan's words. The look in his face, the anger in his eyes, showed that Torrigan meant every word he said. "Urien was your _father! _I understand why your siblings and my court would speak as such about him, but Urien deserves a lot more respect from _you! _It was not Urien's fault he died, and it is not is fault that he left Belisaere before your birth. That was...was my doing. We never meant to--"

"Have me?" Torrigan snarled, then shook his head as his mother tried to deny his words. "No. You know what, Mother? Forget it. I'm not interested any more. I don't care who my father was any more, even though I've wanted you to talk to me about him properly. I didn't want to find out from that sad excuse for a Guardsman, Bran. Thanks for _filling me in_ on the bits he missed out." Suddenly, Torrigan turned and stalked towards the door, face as pale as a sheet of paper.

Iolanthe jumped. "Torrigan? Torrigan, where are you going?"

"Out."

"But--"

"Why do you care?"

The door slammed a second later, leaving Iolanthe alone in the silent room. She stared around at her son's belongings, feeling stunned. Her son rarely spoke to her in such a way – no one else dared to speak to her like that, save Rogir – and Iolanthe hated it. She sank to her knees in despair, hands pressed tightly over her mouth to chain back the heart-breaking wail that threatened to overwhelm her. Tears poured down her cheeks, and her choking, gasping sobs betrayed the Queen's absolute dismay and grief. In that last few moments, she relived her last conversation with Urien.

Like Torrigan, he had stormed out of the room. Urien had left her, unknowingly leaving her to carry his child alone, then died in that blasted hunting accident! But would he have stayed even if he had known about the baby? Iolanthe truly did not know. She hoped he would have; she hoped he would have cared for Torrigan more than he had his other three children. Then she felt guilty of thinking such things.

The three children! She hadn't told Torrigan about them! Maybe he wouldn't want to know? Maybe...? She certainly couldn't go find Torrigan now, not with him in this mood. Iolanthe couldn't bare thinking about...about _anything _any more! Maybe it was best he never know about his other three siblings? It was a shock enough to be told of Urien, and Iolanthe could not give Torrigan any information about his siblings, save for one being a boy, and the other two were twins. She didn't known their names, or even what sex the twins were. Or even if they had survived infancy. The mortality rate for infants was still extremely high.

"Torrigan," she whispered, her voice barely a mouse's whisper. "Urien. Forgive me!"

---

**A night later...**

_Darkness surrounded her, thick and choking. What had first been a pleasant dream had given way to something far...darker. Yanyl, the Clayr messenger, could not feel her own body, had no way of stopping herself from Seeing. She looked out across a cold, darkened stretch of water, and the sight that met her eyes sickened her to the core. _

_Screams. Faint, dying screams sounded out, quickly fading away as a barge glided silently across the water of...where? The Clayr had never been inside the reservoir and so did not know what she was truly looking at. She recognised the people inside the barge, though: Torrigan, the Queen, and Rogir. Her Prince stepped forwards towards his horrified mother, who stared out towards..._

_Yanyl wanted to scream as Rogir suddenly revealed a saw-edged dagger from the folds of his cloak, slashing it across the Queen's neck from behind in one fell swoop. The ladies-in-waiting screamed. The two other guards suddenly rounded on Torrigan, drew sword, then attacked him, the young man barely able to realise what was happening as he rushed at Rogir before the first attacker was upon him. Rogir heard the commotion but refused to turn, holding a golden, glittering cup up hard against his mother's throat, a ruthless look on his face, as though he could not hear her fading scream. The life source of the Queen poured from her yawning throat with a hideous gurgling-gushing sound, and then Rogir pushed his mother carelessly to one side, stepping over her twitching, shuddering body. _

_Another scream announced the death of one of the ladies-in-waiting. The Clayr saw Torrigan roar with anger, killing both guards effortless in his rage, then the snarling, trembling young man turned to face his brother. But Rogir was already out of the barge, wading through the water towards... The Princesses! Yanyl felt cold horror wash over her as she saw the lifeless bodies of two young ladies – young ladies who were unmistakably Princess Meredith and Princess Elsiea._

_There was a flash of metal, a terrible shriek of pain, and Torrigan was suddenly unarmed. Rogir had frozen in the middle of the water, staring down at the blade that was now securely wedged in his chest. Then, to both Torrigan and Yanyl's horror, Rogir turned back to the barge. He smiled wickedly, holding the golden cup out towards his brother as though offering their mother's blood to him for a drink. Torrigan looked sickened. _

"_You may tear this body. Rip it, like some poor-made costume." Rogir walked effortlessly towards Torrigan, as though oblivious to the sword in his chest which should have made him dead by now. "But I cannot die."_

_He was so close to Torrigan now that it was unbearable. But Torrigan could do nothing: he was unarmed and...what? Shocked? Stunned? Sickened? Yanyl could not even begin to guess at what the man was feeling right then. _

_A flash of white light, the sound of bells, Rogir flinching, the cup falling... _And Yanyl woke.

"NO!" All the horror that had built up through that horrific scene escaped from her in one terrified shriek. She sat bolt upright in bed, clasping her hands over her mouth, shaking so violently that she could scarcely keep her hands in place. Tears fell freely from her eyes. "No... No... Dear Charter, no..."

"Wha'sit?" Rogir murmured into the pillow as he woke, reaching out and touching the Clayr's back. He came to his senses as he realised how terrified he was, and quickly sat up, wrapping his arms around her. "Yanyl? What is it?"

"_Get away from me!_" the Clayr suddenly screamed, trying to pull away, but Rogir held her still, fighting with her so that she looked in his eyes. "Stop it! Please, let me go!"

"Not until you tell me what's wrong," Rogir said firmly, gripping her shoulder's tightly, but not tightly enough to hurt her. His gaze softened. "Did you See something?"

"Yes," the girl wept, then tensed as Rogir pulled her gently to his chest, stroking her hair comfortingly. But comfort was the last thing she felt in the arms of this...traitor? She couldn't believe it. She didn't _want _to believe it! Not after what she'd given him, not after what they'd shared in this bed.

"What did you see?" Rogir whispered to her. "You can tell me."

The Clayr hesitated. "I saw... You killed your mother and sisters." This time it was Rogir's turn to tense. "You...you slit their throats. Charter preserve us, you were...you were _dead! _Yet you were alive!"

"Is that so?"

"But...but not _everything _the Clayr see comes true," she babbled desperately, hoping to gain some reassurance from that thought. "This could be an alternative future. Or past. Or present."

"Has anyone else Seen such a...an horrific thing?" Rogir wanted to know. The Clayr looked at him, and his face was deadly serious, if not pale. He too must think the idea too repulsive as well!

"No," Yanyl wept, burying her face into his chest. "Someone would have informed the Queen." She suddenly gasped. "I have to tell her about this! I don't know if it will actually happen, but we can't risk it!"

"Don't," Rogir said, as Yanyl tried to pull away once more. He smiled at her, stroking her cheek gently. "It's late, and Mother is fraught enough as it is what with Torrigan finding out all that jazz about his real father. Don't tell her yet. Let her mend her nerves before you tell her that _I'm _apparently going to kill her."

"But she must know as soon as possible," Yanyl whispered, then flinched as Rogir began to kiss her neck. "Rogir, please, I _need _to tell her!"

"You will do, but not yet," Rogir murmured against her skin. "Not yet. Promise me you won't tell her yet. Soon."

"How long is 'soon'?" she wanted to know, as Rogir laid her back down on the bed.

"Soon," Rogir said again, then smiled. "We don't want to scare her, do we? Telling her now will just...ruin the surprise, won't it? I was joking! This is a very serious matter, I understand, and I've never heard of such a ridiculous, fiendish act in all my life! If you tell me, I can tell her myself when she's calm. Tell me what you saw, Yanyl? Tell me what you saw."

---

_Dun dun DUN! Hats of to the amazing Garth Nix for the traitorous acts of P.R, which made this dream sequence possible : ) Reviews are welcome! Did that honour the gruesomeness or...erm...not? Llamas, Ginger-Bizkit!_


	11. Life Is Too Short For Cowardliness

_Hello! Me no owning Garth Nix's characters or the stories. Did you know RACE CAR is a palindrome? Fantastic! _

**Life Is Too Short For Cowardliness**

Torrigan glanced up as three messengers were shown into the throne room by a grim-faced guard. The messengers were all male and looked tired, yet they still managed to bow to their Queen and the heirs in a humble manner. Torrigan glanced at Rogir, who sat nearby and frowned. Since the Clayr messenger had departed three days before, all Rogir could do was frown, and his dull mood had effected the rest of the family. They were all snappy, irritable – Torrigan was even finding it difficult to speak with Elsie now!

Torrigan's mother nodded as the messengers straightened, her beautiful face looking more drained and stressed than Torrigan had ever seen before in his life. Who would have thought after all the hardship and woe that the Queen had to face all the time could not upset her more than revealing that she was a liar? The boy fidgeted in his seat – he _wanted _to feel sympathetic towards his mother, but he just couldn't! He still felt that he hated the Queen for lying to him for all those years, but yet he did feel...guilty. It was too early to forgive her, he knew that, and he now felt uncomfortable around his siblings. Well, his _half-_siblings. That was probably why.

"Highness," the first messenger said humbly. "We bring sorrowful tidings. The Abhorsen is dead."

Silence followed his announcement. Then Elsie began to cry, turning and throwing her arms around Rogir. The Crown Prince wrapped his arms round his sister's shoulders, his face expressionless as he stared towards the messengers before the family. Torrigan felt heat flare at the back of his eyes, and tears suddenly blurring his vision. He bit his lip hard, controlling his misery. A hand slipped over his own, making Torrigan jump. When he looked up, Meredith was looking straight ahead, her face and feelings controlled, as though she was refusing to except that she was comforting her annoying little brother. But it gave Torrigan strength, and he shifted his hand so that he and Meredith held hands for support. The Princess did not object.

"May he pass quickly beyond the Final Gate," the Queen whispered, and her children quickly mumbled the same blessing. "Was he in much pain in the end? We know that he had been suffering for a while, but we hope he was not suffering too much in the end."

"Majesty, his wounds were terrible. There was little that could be done to save him, but we are told that his passing was assisted in the end. He could not take the pain of his wounds any more."

The grief on the Queen's face betrayed her feelings for her old friend's death, yet her eyes remain dry. "Thank you, sirs. We thank you for the message of the Abhorsen's passing. You may leave." The messengers hesitated. "What is wrong? There is something else."

"Aye, Ma'am," another of the messengers said, then took a deep breath. "Begging your pardon, Majesty, but do you remember the Clayr messenger, Yanyl?"

"Yes, she brought us news of the Abhorsen's injuries."

"She...she was found this morning near the settlement of Sindle. It looks as though she was murdered."

Torrigan saw Rogir stiffen in his seat, and this time pain flashed across his face. Torrigan was the only person to know that Rogir and Yanyl had shared a quiet love affair during the Clayr's short stay at the palace, and now she was gone. Dead. The boy looked up, frowning.

"Is there a motive?"

The messenger who had announced the news glanced at him, and his face hardened. Torrigan lifted his chin defiantly, knowing deep down that here was another who knew of the Queen's own affair and obviously disapproved. Well, Torrigan would not let this man make him feel humiliated. The messenger finally bowed his head. "The Clayr think that Yanyl may have Seen something and confided in someone. That person did not like what they heard and so had heard murdered. It was... They say that the the Clayr was far from recognisable when they found her. They think she must have been ambushed by a large group, probably with the skills of Free Magic."

"Poor child," the Queen whispered, shaking her head. "Is that all?" The messengers bowed and left, leaving the Queen to look at her children. Her gaze was sharp and determined. "This constant warring with the Free Magic traitors goes too far. A member of the Great Charter Bloodlines has been killed, and that make us all vulnerable, do you understand? Because of this, I have am ordering you not to leave the palace without telling me first, and only if you have an escort – yes, you too, Rogir. I do not want to see any of my children hurt." The Queen looked directly at Torrigan, who immediately looked away. "Any of you. I could not bear it if any ill befell you."

"We understand, Mother," Rogir replied casually. "I wonder what the Clayr Saw to make someone want to kill her? It must have been very important."

The Queen was about to reply when there was an urgent knock on the door to the room and a pale faced, gasping man stumbled in – another messenger. He bowed quickly, almost falling, then gasped out his message in such a hurry that the family nearly missed it.

"Majesty! There's been another necromantic attack! The whole of the village of Chasel has been slaughtered!"

---

**Four years later...**

The Bird of Dawning fell spectacularly on its back, sending a line of dancers crashing to the ground like dominoes. A piercing scream of anger sounded from the chief choreographer, Gellgor Radcliffe, stopping the musicians in mid-bar. Thankfully, this was only a rehearsal.

Logan laughed as the Bird tried unsuccessfully to leaver itself to its feet and only managed to push a dancer, who had just managed to get to her feet again, over once more.

"You know, for someone who's such a natural with a blade and moving out the way of getting his head cut off, you're a terrible dancer," Logan laughed cheerfully, seizing the Bird by the shoulders and hoisting him to his feet once more. "Oh, look, you've crumpled your tail feathers!"

The Bird's angry cursing reply was lost in the costume's head. Logan grinned widely and tugged the mask off the neck of the costume, to reveal a red-faced seventeen-year-ol within. "I _hate _this costume! I'm roasting to death in here!"

"Don't worry, Torrgian," Elsie teased, appearing behind Logan. "You look cute! Mother and Meredith both agree with me!"

"Guards shouldn't look 'cute'," Torrigan muttered angrily, wiping sweat from his forehead. "And its all very well I can swing a blade – I'm not dressed like a bloomin' turkey when I fight, am I!"

"The Bird of Dawning is a crucial part in the festival, Torrigan!" Radcliffe said, aghast. "I will not have you taking out your anger on such a famous part in my dance! You are not trying, boy! The dance of the Bird should be graceful, smooth, elegant." Logan fought back another laugh. "Take Logan and Her Highness here. When they dance, their movements are strong yet smooth, like liquid. They aren't my best dancing pair for nothing, Torrigan! You'll just have to try harder! Now, from the top, everyone!"

"Don't you have a spare watchman needed?" Torrigan begged Logan, as Radcliffe moved away. He was rewarded with the older Guard forcing the mask back over his head back-to-front, so that the Bird spent most of the first few bars of the music trying to get its head facing the right way again. When he finally managed that, Torrigan took one stepped forwards and nearly tripped over another dancer.

All the while, Elsie and Logan started their pairs dance again, watched closely by the dancers waiting to join in the rehearsals from the sides of the hall. The twos' eyes were locked on one another's, their faces glowing with the same joy that had made them the most memorable dancers in the festivals for the past seven years.

"May I speak with you later?" Logan whispered, as Elsie spun in to him. She looked surprised for a moment, but that did not stop her completing the next step. "Please?"

"Francis!" Logan flinched at Radcliffe's yell down the end of the hall. "I want to see some more passion in that dance!"

Logan grumbled in response, then felt a smile twitch the corners of his mouth. It had been fleeting, but it _had _been there. Elsie had nodded!

It seemed an age before the rehearsals finally finished. Torrigan ditched the Bird of Dawning costume in the changing rooms for his Guard uniform, then he ran from the room. He had another duty to do. Logan didn't. He tied the laces on his boots once more, splashed his face with water, then exited the changing room. Elsie was there, now in a simple yet stylish gown that announced that she was probably required in some court or meeting in a few minutes. Logan took a deep breath, but Elise spoke first.

"I have to meet with some Ambassador of one of the Northern clans with Mother. The Queen's just arrived back from the Clayr's Glacier, so now doubt she'll tell us all about that soon enough. I can't get out of that, and there's a banquet after. I can...see if I can slip away from that, towards the end. We shall speak then, if that is all right?"

Logan hesitated then bowed. "Princess, I shall do as you command." _Charter help me, what if I lose my courage before then? _

"The fountain? Near the reservoir?"

Logan bowed again, then watched numbly as Elsie hurried off down the hall. He cursed himself bitterly – why hadn't he spoken first? Besides himself, Logan found himself chuckling, if not bitterly. Imagine it: Logan Fancis, not afraid of any foe and yet terrified of speaking to the Princess! A beautiful Princess, for there was now a competition within the court, as well as within the Guard, as to which Princess was the most beautiful. Meredith was still as gorgeous as ever, that was true, but Elsie...

With nothing else to do, Logan began to walk around the halls. He remembered the first time he'd had to dance with Elsie in on of the festivals. She been clearly nervous, but once Logan had managed to get her speaking to him the two had become great friends. Their friendship had grown from strength to strength over the years, and not even Meredith's jealousy had hurt that. Logan had never been able to speak out his true feelings, the feelings that he had refused to except he was feeling for her. Now he could withstand the pain no longer – he _had _to tell Elsie how he felt. If he didn't, he would spend the rest of his life wondering 'what if?', and that was the last thing he wanted.

The hours crawled on. The fourth hour found Logan already at the fountain of the bearded tritons. Logan watched the sun setting, feeling as though the rays of the dying sun had somehow reached out and seized his heart, determined to drag his Life down to its doom along with the sun. Soon music reached his ears, the sounds of the banquet. Logan took a deep breath, determined to wait and speak. He silently ran through his speech once more, hoping he would get it right and not make a fool of himself.

He opened his eyes. Someone was walking towards him. Logan glanced up and spotted Elsie walking towards him, a shawl wrapped tightly around her slender shoulders. The skirts of her elegantly fitting gown whispered across the grass underfoot, and when she looked up her face reflected the crystal smile of the moon. Logan felt his mouth drop open of its own accord, trying not to admire too openly how the gown hugged the Princess's slender body.

"You look...fantastic, Highness."

Elsie excepted the compliment with a nod. She frowned suddenly, stepping forwards and laying a hand on Logan's cheek. "You're cold. How long have you been out here?"

"Since before sunrise. I really wanted to speak with you, milady. I would have been willing to wait longer if that's what it took to speak with you."

"That was foolished," Elsie said, though she smiled, motioning with her hand for him to speak. "And flattery doesn't become you, Logan. What is that you want to say?"

_Here goes nothing_. Logan too a deep breath, readying himself to speak. _It's now or never, Logan! Nothing can go wrong! Nothing! _

---

_Oooh, what's he going to say? Maybe it's a little soppy, but oh well! Trust me, this is going to go wrong! Horribly! Haha! I'm so wicked! Llamas, Ginger-Bizkit. _


	12. Lying Lovers, Rising Beasties

_Hello! Me no owning Garth Nix's characters or the stories. Did you know RACE CAR is a palindrome? Fantastic! _

**Let Lying Lovers Lie & Evil Beasties Rise**

To Logan's horror, the speech had prepared evaporated from his mind as he opened his mouth. He stood there for a second, forehead creasing into a confused frown, then he caught sight of Elsie's face. She looked slightly irritated. _Fine, I'll just have to go without!_

"Elsie, we've known each other for seven years, and...well, over that time we've grown close, wouldn't you say?"

"Yes."

Logan felt his heart soar as Elsie smiled. Then his mouth got the better of him. "Elsie, I know that I seem forwards and pert, but I love you! You're the most beautiful, talented woman I've ever met, and my feelings aren't help by the fact that every year I have to sit back and watch you growing even more lovelier, and I can't say anything! And the suitors that come to see you, they could never love you in the same way I love you!"

Elsie had turned very pale. She took a step back away from him, looking at her old friend as though he were raving. Logan felt sick with fear. "Logan, you...you can't speak to me like that! It's not the done thing! How _dare_ you?"

Her words hurt Logan like a sword to the heart. A real sword to the heart probably would have been kinder, and Logan felt himself reddening out of humiliation and anger. "I'm sorry I offend you, Princess. But I can't help it! I can't even begin to tell you how much agony keeping silent about my true feelings for you has been, and frankly I hope you never have to feel such a pain!" His face softened, and he stepped forwards to her. "I know suitors must say this to you all the time, but I can't stop thinking about you. You truly are the most beautiful woman I've ever seen in my life."

"Now I _know _you're lying," Elsie snapped, looking hurt. "Everyone knows Meredith is the most beautiful woman in Life – even more so than Mother, some say. I don't hold a candle to her. And you're wicked to even _think_ of saying that I do!"

"Why are you being so harsh on yourself?" Logan scolded, taking Elsie's hands. She tried to pull away from him but he refused to let her go. "Elsiea, _please_, just hear me out! I can't--"

Hands seized him from behind, dragging him away from the startled Princess. Logan tried to fight back, thinking he had unknowingly lead his Princess into a trap, but he forgot his anger when he caught sight of the watching group at the door of the reservoir. Amongst the group was several of Logan's Guardsmen, the Ambassador of the Northern clans. And the Queen. Logan cringed shamefully, not wanting to guess at how much they'd heard. The guardsman who held him still was Torrigan.

"What the hell do you think you're doing?" he hissed in Logan's ear. "It looked like you were hurting her!"

"I--" Elsie curtsied shakily to the Queen and the Ambassador, then turned and fled. Logan pulled himself out of Torrigan's grip, but the Queen's sharp voice made him stop dead in his tracks.

"Let her go, Francis. If Princess Elsiea does not wish to remain in your company, you _will_ be kind enough to permit her leave."

The Queen turned to the Ambassador and bowed her head. After a few exchanged words, a sweet chuckle, then a bow, the Ambassador and the three other Guards moved on through the grounds, leaving Logan alone to be confronted by Elsie's mother. The woman stalked over to the man, her face icy and hard.

"I would have expected more from you, Logan Francis! How _dare _you speak to my daughter in such a manner! What gives you the right to think that you may speak so freely to Princess Elsiea and then..._restrain _her in such a manner? This is not how I expect my Guardsmen to behave, especially not _you_, and I have half a mind to expel you from your duties!" The Queen sniffed, seeing Logan hang his head in shame. "As it is, I need you here. But this attitude shall not be tolerated, though, do you hear?"

"Yes, Your Majesty," Logan mumbled, then raised his head, eyes defiant. "Forgive me. I must tell you, though, that I am _not _sorry for saying those things to Elsie. I meant every word I said, and I do love her more than I can put into words. To do so would not even capture _half _of how I feel for her! It might be wrong; I might have disgraced and humiliated myself beyond repair, but I don't care about that! So long as I have not hurt Elsie, I am content with my lot. I would never dream of hurting Elsie. Your Majesty, I'm sorry that your daughter holds such a dear space in my heart."

Torrigan stood frozen to the spot, staring at Logan with a mixture of horror and awe. Where did he find the courage to say such things in front of the Queen? She also looked very astonished, her face suddenly growing soft and sympathetic. Then, all of a sudden, the Queen's face hardened once more. "Pray tell, Mr Francis, are your feelings for my daughter for her as a person, or for her as a Princess of the Kingdom?"

Logan bowed. "Forgive me, Majesty, I have failed to understand you meaning."

The Queen's mouth tightened and a hard look grew in her eyes. "Let me make this simple then, Francis. Are you intrested in my daughter's beautiful personality or her beautiful money?"

The horror that showed on Logan's face gave way to loathing. He bowed graciously, then turned and walked towards the reservoir. _A nice place to hide_, Torrigan thought, watching as his mentor disappeared into the gloom. _Charter help us, that man isn't afraid of anything!_

"Don't you think that you were a little harsh on Logan, Mother?" Torrigan asked quietly, looking up at his mother's composed face. "Can't you see that Logan was being sincere? And you know how much Elsie likes Logan."

"Yes, I know." The Queen shook her head, as though pained. "I don't expect you to understand why I was so harsh on Logan, Torrigan, but don't start hating me for my words."

"If you don't expect me to understand, why don't you tell me?"

The Queen's warning glare made Torrigan remember himself. He bowed his head apologetically, and the Queen said: "Elsie is nineteen, younger than Logan. I know what it's like to be young, Torrigan. You think you love someone, and though its frowned upon in our society, people become foolish. You do not know such foolishness yet, thankfully, but I don't want to see Elsie hurt. Logan is a very attractive young man, and women often drop their guard for such looks. Women forget themselves, mistakes are made, and--"

"Mistakes?" Torrigan spat, suddenly hurt. "Mistakes like me, you mean?"

"No! Oh, Torrigan, I didn't mean... I don't want..." The Queen sighed and touched Torrigan's arm. "Look at me." Torrigan did as she commanded, and the Queen smiled gently. "You are my son, and my life would not be complete without you. Some mistakes are worth making." The Queen took Torrigan's arm and walked with him in the direction that the Ambassador had gone. "Did I tell you, Torrigan, that when I went to the Clayr's Glacier, one of them Saw something about you?"

Torrigan faltered, surprised. "About me! Why? What did they say?"

The Queen laughed slightly, glancing at her son and meeting his eye. "The Clayr said that you would make her very happy." The Queen winked, then laughed again at the surprise on her son's face.

"Who? Did the Clayr say anything more specific?"

The look on his mother's face softened, her face growing distant. When she spoke, her voice was very low and filled with dread: "The Clayr told me:'She shall come from across the Wall, taken and raised by those that do not believe. She shall be the woman who shall save the Old Kingdom; the one to make a king out of the past. Together they shall restart the fading Bloodline. Together they shall destroy the enemies that seek to destroy us all'. Then the Clayr looked at me and said, "Torrigan shall make her very happy'. Was that specific enough, my dear?"

"The Clayr must have had some alternative future or someone else in her mind," Torrigan said confidently. "And as for someone who's going to save the Old Kingdom, she'd better hurry up and save it all ready! I don't think the people can take much more of this constant fear and growing of Death." Torrigan hesitated again. "I wish you had not allowed Rogir to go travelling. I fear for him, Mother."

"I would not have let him go if I had not thought that Rogir could take care of himself. Rogir will come home after his studies, and hopefully he will have changed for the better – I need him to be a good king after I am gone."

"He will be," Torrigan said, then grinned. "And if he isn't, I'll beat him around the throne room with a broom until he changes his ways."

"You always were the sensible one." The wicked gleam in his mother's eye sparkled. "And I must admit, you do look a lot better in the Bird of Dawning costume than your brother did!"

"I look like a turkey," Torrigan complained.

"Yes, but a very _cute_ turkey," his mother replied. Knowing that it would be pointless to argue this one out with his mother, for she would never let him win this, Torrigan sighed and let her teasing slide.

---

Logan sat in one of the barges, staring out across the stillness. The gloom of the water matched the misery in his soul, and not even the comforting presence of the Charter Stones could cheer him. He did not even register the sound of a door opening far away, or even the soft footsteps down the staircase. Elsie stopped as she saw him sitting there, his back to her and his shoulders hunched.

"Logan?" There was no answer. "Logan, I'm...I'm sorry I was so nasty to you. I didn't know what to say – I panicked. And I'm sorry if I got you in trouble with my mother."

"I shouldn't have been so forward," Logan muttered, then glanced over his shoulder. "Your mother says that she'll let me keep my job, but I've decided to resign from the dance. I'll wait until the end of the year, then I'll resign from the Guard as well. I didn't mean to cause you any offence."

"You didn't," Elsie whispered. The Princess stood there, staring at Logan in horror. Then she hurried to the boat, throwing herself to her knees so that she could see the man closer. "Oh, Logan, don't resign from the dance, or the Guard! Not because of me, _please_! That's the last thing I want you to do! When you spoke to me tonight, I was scared and...and stupid! I wasn't thinking straight, Logan! Please. Forgive me!"

The reservoir echoed her desperate pleas, then her soft crying. Logan closed his eyes, feeling like he was the bad guy. Then anger took over him. "How do you know I'm not just interested in you because you're a Princess? What if I don't care about you as yourself? It's what you're mother thinks."

"Because I know you, Logan," was the whispered reply. "I've seen the way you act around me compared with how those self-important suitors do, and you are so much more sincere. And kind. And...lovely." She laid her hand on Logan's shoulder, feeling him tense. "I'm sorry, Logan. I admire you for your courage when speaking out about your feelings. I...I could not have been so courageous. And I wish I had." Logan looked back and met her eyes. "That's why I feel so stupid and horrible: I feel the same way about you, but I was too scared to tell you. I _couldn't _tell you!"

"Because I'm below your status?" His voice was as hard as the stone that made the reservoir.

Elsie turned her face away. "I hate that. I don't care about status or anything else like that; I still just love being with you – dancing with you is the best thing I have. I still love you, Logan. I'm sorry for being so--"

"Stupid?" Logan demanded, his voice shaking with anger. "Pompous? Cowardly?"

"Yes. But I never meant to... You _scared _me out there! It was so sudden that I didn't know how to react! Please, Logan, don't be angry with me! I didn't--"

Logan turned, seizing Elsie and pulling her down into the barge with him. It rocked violently, threatening to tip, but Logan merely laughed and kissed Elsie hard on the lips. She looked up at him, surprised. "You aren't angry with me?"

"Of course not. Well, maybe just a little."

Elsie grinned, then blushed. "You probably think it's silly but...I've never been kissed before. Nineteen-years-old – how sad is that? Mind you, my nannies always used to say you should _never_ let a man kiss you unless you were betrothed or married to him."

Logan smiled, rolling his eyes. "Well, then, it looks like I'm going to have to marry you."

Afterwards, as Logan and Elsie walked up the stairs towards the family solar, they left the reservoir behind them without embarrassment or Logan's anger. The first rays of sunlight were already filtering down from the dawn sky outside, fighting down into the reservoir and hoping to win a battle against the darkness inside.

---

"Do we have a time?" Prince Rogir asked, looking across at Joss and four other necromancers across the tavern table. "I have knowledge that Abhorsen has gone to examine some decoy set up by Kerliw over near Edge. It's all set. We should plan to be at Yanyl by the next full moon."

"That's a fierce ride," commented Joss quietly, glancing at another of their fellows. "Will the horses make it?"

Rogir's look narrowed. "Of course they will! There is no other option: we _have _to get there before the four days are out. Just _think _of what shall happen, Joss! One of us shall be killed!"

Joss looked uneasy at his friend's words. "We deal with Death, Rogir – we don't want to _be _one of the Dead ourselves. Master asks too much of us."

"We've already sacrificed our lives, and the penalty one of us if the Queen's soldiers find us is death anyway." Rogir shook his head, chuckling bitterly. "Am I the only one who sees this as an opportunity?"

"You're crazy, Rogir."

The Prince smiled thinly. "Yes, madness is in my blood. But I won't have to worry about that soon, will I? I shan't need my blood any more – I'm going to _die!_"

_Please review! Llamas, Ginger-Bizkit! _


	13. The Rise Of Evil

_Sorry I've been so long updating but I have had SO much coursework to do! This week alone I've had six pieces on the go! I feel evil, so let's do evil things in this chapter..._

**The Rise Of Evil**

Rogir stepped off the boat, grabbing the rope to help more it in place at the bank. Five other necromancers clambered out, their movements quiet and soft as though trying to hide their wicked deeds from nature itself. When the boat was moored and the boat securely hidden, the six necromancers headed through the undergrowth towards the trees, slipping like the Dead they raised past the gnarled, wizened old trunks of the oaks towards the clearing. Already many had gathered. At the heart of the clearing stood a sacrificial altar made of stone, the marks that danced upon its surface evil and wreaking of Free Magic.

Rogir and his five follows moved silently through the crowd of blank-faced other, whose faces looked as pale and death-leached as the Abhorsen's. All cast their eyes towards the altar where the necromancer, Haydn Piran, stood and watched them with narrowed eyes. He observed the arrival of the Prince, then glanced up at the sky. It was growing late – if they did not start soon it would be too late to start the ceremony, and Piran did not want to wait for another full moon. It was now or never.

"Brothers and sisters," the necromancer called in a loud voice. "Welcome here to this meeting. Those of whom arrived here by the river Yanyl, I hope you've hidden your boat suitably." People nodded. "Good. Now, you know why I have called you all here, but let me make it clear to all you mindless fools that would forget my message as soon as it's received! Tonight, one of you will lie here upon this altar. Tonight, one of you shall give yourself to our cause. Tonight, one of your shall die."

The crowd hesitated, looking sickened and uneasy. Necromancy was one thing, but giving up their own lives... That was asking too much. The necromancer saw the unease and confusion in his follower's eyes, and his forehead furrowed in irritation. His followers were all fools and cowards!

"Is there no one who will give themselves to our cause? Or do I have to volunteer one of you myself?"

"I'll do it," Rogir suddenly called out. Gasps greeted his words – was the Crown Prince _mad_? He was going to be King some day, so long as no one found about his wooing of necromancy, so he did not need such power. "I'll be your sacrifice."

The necromancer surveyed the young man, fighting back a smile. He knew there would be one such as the Prince that would be brave enough to step forwards, and the necromancer was pleased that it was Rogir. "Are you sure about this, Rogirek?"

"Yes."

"Come here."

The crowd parted to let the Prince through. He stepped up to the altar, face composed yet full of determination. The necromancer shook the Prince's hand, smiling warmly. He reached up one hand, touching the mark on the Prince's head, muttering words. Immediately the Charter mark on Rogir's head wavered and was gone, revealing the corrupted Charter mark he now bore. The necromancer turned to the crowd as Rogir shrugged off his cloak.

"The Prince has volunteered his spirit to us! He shall be sacrificed, his body charmed by those who I have taught the spell – you know who you are – and then his spirit infused into it again. Now we begin."

The necromancer gestured towards the altar, bowing his head to the Prince. Rogir hesitated for a second, then levered himself up onto the block of stone so that he sat facing the crowd. A second later he swung his legs round so that he could lie down properly on this bed of stone, and the Prince cast his eyes up to the sky.

Standing in the crowd, Joss looked on, sickened. All their master's message had said was that the followers would meet by the river Yanyl, and one would be sacrificed. From the moment he'd received the message, Rogir had been determined that it would be he. Joss wanted to shout out to him, scream at him not to do such a foolish act – why would anyone want to become Dead? This wasn't Rogir's time. Of all the sick and twisted necromantic deeds Joss had seen, _this _was the worst of them all.

"This will only hurt for a moment," the necromancer was telling Rogir quietly, as he unsheathed the curved blade of the sacrificial knife. Rogir observed it with wide, horrified eyes. "Don't look so frightened, Rogir. I will follow you into Death and bring your spirit back into Life. Do not fear – you have made a wise choice."

Rogir smiled thinly. "I know."

The necromancer began to chant. Slowly, one by one, the followers picked up his words and began to follow his lead. Soon the forest echoed the voice of hundreds of women and men, all of whom watched and waited as Piran touched marked after mark onto Rogir's body, while the Prince lay motionless on the altar. Then, without warning, the necromancer lifted the blade high into the air, and the blade screamed through the air as it flashed down towards the sacrifice. There was a flash of light, a short, piercing scream...

And Prince Rogirek of the Old Kingom was dead.

* * *

Rogir felt as light as a feather. He lay on his back, staring up at a darkened sky. There were no stars, no clouds, no moon. Nothing. Nothing but water, water that carried him down through eddies towards a place Rogir could not think of. He'd been in Death countless times before, but he had momentarily forgotten where he was. All he could remember was the blade curving down towards him, the flash of light that could only be made by Free Magic, and then...this. Floating. The sensation of being carried away made Rogir ever more happy to let his spirit be washed on down this river forever and ever and... 

A burning hand seized him from behind. Rogir's spirit stopped its downwards hurtle towards the First Gate, and instead was being hoisted up onto its feet. The necromancer was behind him, calling Rogir's name. The spirit shook its head, confused and dazed suddenly, before it suddenly wrenched itself out of the necromancer's hold and turned on him.

"Easy, Rogir," the necromancer soothed, as the Dead Prince looked around him in horror. "Easy, it's all over now."

"I'm no longer in Life?"

"No."

Rogir looked at his hands for a moment, eyes wide with amazement. It was as though he had not even died – his hands still looked like part of his body. He looked up at the necromancer, smiling broadly. "You experiment has worked, yes?"

"I still need to see if I can bring you back properly. Your body awaits, Your Highness."

The Prince frowned slightly. "My own body? My _old _body? What do I want with that?"

The necromancer looked surprised. "But...but that is the whole point of the experiment, Rogir! We want to see if we can fuse a Dead spirit back into his body permanently. Did you not read my message?"

"Of course I did," Rogir snapped, then sighed. "All right, Master. Take me back to Life."

Rogir allowed the necromancer to lead the way towards Life. He could soon feel its glorious warmth reaching out to him, calling him to return while Death called at him to give in once more to the river. Never!

"I shall go first, then you will---" Rogir did not let the necromancer finish. Coming up behind the man, Rogir grabbed him and swung him around and down into icy waters. The necromancer flailed, trying to get his footing, but Rogir made sure to trip him again when he made to stand up. The Prince loomed over his master, grinning widely.

"Rule number one, Haydn," Rogir sneered. "Never turn your back on a creature of Death. I thought _you _of all people would have known better."

Then the necromancer had gone, his spirit dragged away by the merciless current of Death. Rogir smiled to himself, retreating a few steps. He glanced around, looking for others like himself. Seeing none, Rogir turned and forced his way back into Life.

The young necromancer's all jumped as they saw the Dead thing appear. They watched its movements as it walked towards the altar where the dead Prince's body lay. The corpse was white, eyes wide and empty. The spirit motioned for the chanters to continue their words, then turned back to face the body of Haydn Piran. Already his followers were beginning to realise that their master was not going to return.

"Rogir?"

The Dead creature looked out and met Joss's eyes. "Yes?"

"Where...where is... What have you done with Master?"

"He's dead, Joss, just like me." Rogir smiled, looked towards the body. "I decided that I didn't like what he was proposing after all. I don't want to be freed from my body just to be stuffed back into it once more – so I decided to take his instead. Do you have a problem with that, old friend?"

His voice was sickly sweet and full of threat. Joss shock his head. The spirit turned once more and faced Piran's body. The young necromancers watched in a horrified silence as the spirit moved into their master's body, taking it for its own cruel purpose. Once he had finished, Rogir turned and observed the crowd through the necromancer's own empty eyes.

"I have decided to change our experiment, friends. Instead of returning to my body, I shall..._borrow _Master's. Mine I want you to hide in a safe location of my choosing, and I want you to make it that if I ever have to return to Death, I can escape back into Life via my body. Do you understand?" A murmur of agreement met his words. Rogir watch on. "Also, I have another plan. One that will benefit us all if carried out to my specifications. I have been thinking of it for a while – an old lover of mine gave me the idea a long time ago. You may remember her, for she was the one I asked you all to look out for and kill if you see her. The Clayr girl."

"What is this plan of your, Rogir?" Joss called again, walking cautiously up to his old friend. He coughed nervously. "If you want an ally, Master, you can find one in me."

Rogir laid one of the necromancer's hands onto Joss's shoulder. "Good. I was hoping that you would say that, Joss. You are powerful and will help me, I know. I am glad that you wish to remain in our Master's old group. I need people to help me that I know were loyal to the cause in the beginning, and all those who intend to leave now risk their lives more than I did by sacrificing myself." Their was a ruthlessness in Rogir's voice that turned Joss's blood to ice. "For all those who chose to follow _me _know only that I do not wish you to call me Rogir any more. I do not need my death getting back to my family – that is _crucial _for the success of my plan."

Joss looked confused. "But...then what do you want us to call you, Rogir?"

The necromancer's dead face smiled broadly. "I think Kerrigor would be a suitable name for a Dead being such as I. Believe me, Joss, people will learn to _fear _that name! I have plan – an evil plan – that shall save our world. It's prophetic and most certainly not pathetic. And it shall get my name known to all those who embrace the Charter."

"What do you plan to do...Kerrigor?" Joss asked quietly, feeling cold dread filling his heart. He did not like the way his master's dead face was grinning triumphantly.

"What do I plan to do? I plan to break the Great Stones down in the reservoir of Belisaere's palace." The necromancers all cried out as one, alarmed – no such idea had been put into motion before, for it surely could not succeed! "The Queen, the two Princesses, and the little half-Prince shall all DIE! AND IT _SHALL_ COME TO PASS!"

And with that, Kerrigor threw back his head and began to roar with laughter. He had been released on the world at last! Now he could show his mother and all of her people what _real _power was!

* * *

_There we are! Ooooh, what'll happen next? You might have to wait a bit 'cos I don't get any free writing time unless its the weekend or I'm ill! __Thanks to all my wonderful reviewers – I LOVE YOU ALL! Don't let me down now! Llamas, Ginger-Bizkit! _:D 


	14. Do Me A Favour

_ARGH! I'm SOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO sorry I haven't updated sooner!!! I've got exams in like three weeks and I am absolutely kaking myself! Revision and coursework has kept me from updating this one... PLEASE READ AND REVIEW!!! All your reviews have been fantastic!!! _XD

* * *

**Do Me A Favour**

**Three years later**

Torrigan swallowed nervously, hand braced on the door handle. His mother was on the other side of that door, he knew; he could hear her talking to Logan. Even from outside the room, Torrigan could hear his mother's voice was full of energy and barely-contained excitement. Barely four days before, Logan and Elsie had expressed their wish to be married and, as far as Torrigan could tell, his mother was more than happy to give her blessing. Elsie had visited Torrigan the previous night, waking him from his sleep.

"Torri, I'm sorry, but...but I need to talk to you."

He had grumbled and struggled up into a sitting position. There he had glared at her. "I've got morning watch, you realise?"

"I know, and I said I'm sorry." She'd hesitated, unable to meet his eye. "Could you do me the biggest favour in the world?" Torrigan had grunted. "Would you...would you give Logan and me your blessing?"

"Of course. I thought I already had."

"In front of Mother."

Torrigan had yawned widely. "I already did."

"Torri, our father is dead. I don't want to ask Rogir, so...so would _you_ be the one who leads me to the alter, if mother lets Logan and I wed?"

"Don't you mean our _fathers_ are dead," Torrigan had asked, then grinned as Elsie opened her mouth to say something. "I'm jesting. Elsie, I'd be honoured."

She had smiled gently, hugging her brother tightly. "I don't care who are fathers were, Torri: you're still my brother and I love you to pieces; craziness and all!"

"Thanks."

"And this will give you practice for when you have to walk your own daughter to the alter," Elsie had whispered.

"Why didn't you ask Rogir?"

Elsie was silent for a moment. Then she had whispered, "I don't know. Since he came home...he frightens me now."

"He's always been flamboyant. It's in his nature."

"Yes, but he's never been this..." She had hesitated again. "I don't know. He's never been this _watchful_."

"He's been away for years," Torrigan had tried to soothe. "He's grown up. We all have."

But his sisters words still made an impression on him. His sister was frightened, and yet Torrigan saw no reason to panic. Rogir hadn't really changed. He was lively, excitable, and all-in-all cocky, but hadn't he always been like that? Besides, Torrigan loved having his older brother back home. When Elsie had woken him, Torrigan had been trying to sleep off too much drink from one of the various parties Rogir had dragged him to. He hadn't been too happy at being woken.

Now it was time to go give his blessing to his sister's desire to be married.

* * *

"You should have wrote me when Mother said," Rogir told him, slowing his chestnut horse down to a walk besides Torrigan's grey. "A Clayr's Sight turned onto you?"

"It's not much," Torrigan murmured, shrugging. "It could have been an alternate future. Besides, how many women do _I _know. Well, women who could save the Kingdom, anyway."

His brother frowned slightly, worrying his lower lip. His eyes grew distant for a moment as the young men rode their horses calmly through the palace grounds. "What was the exact prophecy again?"

Torrigan sighed and cursed Meredith inwardly. His sister had told Rogir at breakfast that morning about the Clayr's words, and the Crown Prince had not let the matter slide the whole day.

"'She shall come from across the Wall, taken and raised by those that do not believe. She shall be the woman who shall save the Old Kingdom; the one to make a king out of the past. Together they shall restart the fading Bloodline. Together they shall destroy the enemies that seek to destroy us all'."

Rogir smiled wickedly. "The only thing it could point to is the Dead uprising. And the only person who could defeat them is the Abhorsen. And the new one's a man."

Torrigan nodded his head and then laughed. "So you think this woman could be an Abhorsen?"

"Meh, I don't know." Rogir slapped a hand over Torrigan's shoulder, grinning slightly. "Well, whoever she is, we shall be looking out for her. I especially."

Torrigan turned his horse back to face the palace, glancing up at the sky overhead. The sun was setting; it was almost time for him to get ready. Rogir saw the concern that flashed over Torrigan's face, and his forehead creased with a frown. "What's wrong?"

"I have guard duty soon."

"Where?"

The young man shrugged. "I don't know. I'm looking after Mother, so I guess this duty shan't be too taxing."

Rogir sniggered. "I hear you're the envy of the Guard. The Queen doesn't bother to sneak sweets into the pockets of her other guards."

"I asked her to stop, but she keeps treating me like a little," Torrigan sighed, then laughed. "'Sneaking sweets into my pockets' being another way of saying 'ordering me to eat'. I suppose it could be worse."

"Yes. You could be asked to guard the Reservoir."

Torrigan gave his brother a dark look. "Don't jest! That place gives me the creeps. Thank the Charter no one has to guard there."

"I know that," Rogir replied with a shrug, then turned his eyes towards the entrance to the home of the Charter Stones. "I think it's a damned shame, though. When I'm King, I'll make sure there's a guard on each door."

"You'll be popular."

Torrigan was silenced with a serious stare. "Anything could happen down there. I'd rather be safe than sorry." Rogir's handsome face was so grave, Torrigan could do nothing more than hang his head, feeling humiliated. "Don't look like that, Torri. Look, have you got any duty tomorrow?"

"Afternoon, up top of the palace. Why?"

His brother rubbed his hands gleefully. "Let's go for a drink. In the evening, of course. I'm sure we could sneak out into the city and find a party or lively tavern. I'm sick of all these meetings and polite dances."

Torrigan laughed again. "I don't think you can complain when you invite half the young women back to your rooms afterwards. Oh, and _please_ stop trying to make me talk to girls. It's so embarrassing."

"What?" Rogir looked shocked. "How is it embarrassing?"

The young man blushed. "I don't...I don't know what to say."

"Then _don't talk_. There are plenty of other options, little brother. How old are you now, nineteen?"

"Twenty."

"Oh."

Torrigan glared at the confused Rogir. "And I take it one of those other 'options' is...is love."

Never one for modesty, Rogir pulled a face. "It's called 'sex', Torrigan. The word isn't going to kill you. There's nothing wrong with it. You don't _have_ to wait until you're married – few do!"

"I don't want to be the cause of another accident," Torrigan replied heatedly, feeling his neck and cheeks reddening. "_I_ hated the truth when I found out about me. I won't have any child of mine humiliated like I was."

"You're too sensitive, Torrigan." Rogir scolded. He reigned his horse up, casting eyes up the palace before them. "I don't want to head in too soon. You go ahead; I'm going to carry on riding for a while."

"On your own?"

Rogir rolled his eyes. "I'm a grown man, little brother. I can take care of myself."

Torrigan nodded. As Rogir rode off through the grounds away from him, Torrigan dismounted and patted his horse's neck in way of thanks. He looked towards the way his brother had gone and sighed. He loved Rogir. He had been one of his best friends since he could remember. But sometimes – just sometimes – he was too nosy for his own good.

"C'mon," he muttered to the horse, starting to lead the beast back towards the stables. "I've got work to do."


	15. Straight On Till Death

_Just broke up from school today...forever! This chapter is dedicated to my "Big Brother" Josh, and Vicky, as well as all my other leavers. I LOVE YOU GUYS!!!!_

* * *

**First Stairwell To The Right And Straight On Till Death**

Torrigan was bored. Down on the law of the palace, his mother and her ladies-in-waiting were playing Cranaque; they had left the comfort of the sitting rooms in order to play this stupid game that frankly the young guardsmen saw no point to at all. The women were all laughing as the youngest of the ladies-in-waiting – Vlare, wasn't she called? – took her fourth go. The Queen was winning, which hardly surprised the young man: she had reared all her children to play the game and could beat any minister that dared to try and beat her. The only person who had ever gotten close to beating the Queen at Cranaque had been Princess Meredith...and that had only been because Torrigan had been tampering the with results.

He was not in a bad mood. The sky was beautiful tonight, burning amber with the coming sunset, the breeze icy with the promise of rain to come that following morning. It was nearing the Midwinter festival, and over the walls of the palace lay the preparations for yet another glorious celebration. Torrigan knew that the guards were planning to do a special performance based on the epic story of a war from the distant, dusty memories of the Old Kingdom, instead of their usual marches and acrobatics demonstrations. He had been practising hard for the festival, far more excited than he had ever been before in his life! Adjusting his sword at his hip, Torrigan smiled slightly, and cast his eyes around the lawn around them. Rogir was home after years of absence; little Elsie was betrothed; and Torrigan didn't have to be the stupid Turkey of Dawning. There was very little that could dull the happiness that wanted to explode from his heart; even the boredom of watching the game of Cranaque couldn't dampen Torrigan's spirit.

The guard opposite him was looking at him, watching him closely. Torrigan blanched, realising that he hadn't noticed the fixed stare of his fellow – was that weariness he saw in the guardsman's eyes? Torrigan frowned slightly, remembering that he didn't know this man very well. He was a newcomer, one of Rogir's friends. The Prince had been impressed by the young man's fighting and Charter skills – both of which indeed were very strong indeed – and had him back for a post in the Royal Guard. Not wanting to seem rude, Torrigan nodded his head and the young guard jumped and nodded back.

"Is this your first time guarding the Queen and her ladies?" Torrigan asked the newcomer, crossing over to his side. He knew how boring watch could be without conversation, and should he not at least be sociable?

"It is, sir, yes," the man replied – Joss, that was his name. Torrigan remembered it now. "It's a lovely night to be out, isn't it?"

"Mmm," he agreed. "Usually we don't come outside till summer, when the nights draw in later and the gardens are cooler than inside. But Her Majesty...Well, she likes this game a lot."

"I can hear you, Torri," the Queen laughed, then clapped her hands joyfully. "That's another point for myself!"

Torrigan caught Joss's eye and rolled his own eyes in mock irritation. The newcomer, obviously not sure whether Torrigan was joking or not, kept his face expressionless. Then, suddenly, his sword was whisked out of its scabbard. "Sir, look!"

Throat tight with alarm, Torrigan loosened his own blade and turned, only to see Rogir coming towards the small party. The Queen and her ladies paused, looking as well, only to relax as the Queen took her next turn without bothering to pay her heir any more attention. But Torrigan's hand tightened on the blade of his sword: Rogir was stumbling up towards them, his face...odd. It took a moment for Torrigan to realise that the Crown Prince was frightened, but why?

"Mother? Mother, stop!" Torrigan walked forwards as Rogir stumbled into the pool of Charter light that illuminated the ground around them. His brother looked sickened, face white and eyes burning. "Mother, please, there...there is trouble in the reservoir!"

"For Charter's sake, Rogir, what _are_ you babbling about?" the Queen asked tiredly, looking up irritably at her son and not look in the least bit worried at his words. "Slow your words _down_ boy! Honestly! Now, say that again but not so fast."

Rogir's back straightened slightly, his face pinched. "For the love of the Charter, Mother, I am not jesting here! You _have_ to come to the reservoir! There... Save us! There is something strange going on down there... I... I have no words... Mother, _please!_"

"It can wait till morning, Rogir."

"It---"

The Queen's eyes and voice were as sharp as a knife, and every inch as deadly. "I shall attend to the matter come next morn, Rogir, not before! We are in the middle of a game here, and I for one have had a rather stressful day without you stirring up more mischief for me."

Rogir just stared at her. His mouth was open in disbelief, hands half outstretched, as though pleading. Then, much to Torrigan's despair, his brother turned to him. "Torrigan...Torrigan, _please_, you have to help me! Mother has to go down to the Stones!" Rogir had a hold of his shirt now, shaking him roughly to emphasise his words. "Torri, _please_!"

The guardsman prised his brother's hands off him, cursing wildly. "Rogir, calm down! Stop it!"

"Torrigan, please!" Rogir glanced over his shoulder, then faced Torrigan once more. "Please," he said, "please, you _have_ to help me! The Stones...Charter help me, Torrigan, Mother _has _to see this."

Torrigan faltered slightly, eyes flickering over to where his mother was standing. The Queen should was enjoying herself, but even Torrigan thought that she should be looking to the Great Stones – the Charter and the Kingdom relied on them. Would she really jeopardise everything if Rogir's fears were true, over some silly game?

"Mother, please," Torrigan said softly, making the woman look at him. He glanced back at Rogir, who nodded urgently in encouragement, then took a deep breath. "Rogir knows what he's talking about. Surely you should go with him – to humour him, if you like – and then return here afterwards if all is well? If all is not, at least you can react quickly to remedy the situation, whatever it may be."

There was a long silence. The Queen stared at her youngest son, her look questioning. Her eyes were drawn to Rogir, who was still lingering, still clasping his hands, then the Queen nodded. "All right, Torrigan. Rogir. I shall go and look at the Stones, and you shall all accompany. Charter knows," she remarked with a shudder, "the reservoir is a cursed dark at night."

Rogir clasped Torrigan's shoulder tightly as the group began to gather themselves. "Thank you, little brother."

Nodding, Torrigan shrugged Rogir off. The reservoir... Charter curse him, what could be happening down there? If it could scare Rogir, it must be mighty terrible.

* * *

Torrigan brought the Charter Marks for light up as the Queen stepped awkwardly onto the barge, followed closely by her ladies-in-waiting. Nodding to the other guards, who carefully stepped on bored after Rogir, Torrigan loosed the mooring line and pushed the barge off into the reservoir. His mother scowled angrily as Torrigan threw himself in the barge as well, making the light little craft rock dangerously. 

"Careful, Torrigan. If you fall in, I shan't ––"

The Crown Prince's face was half cast with shadows, his finger pressed to his lips. "Hu_sh!_"

"Can you hear that?" Torrigan asked immediately, clasping his sword tightly. He straightening to hear, eyes desperately trying to pierce the dark of the reservoir ahead. "Is...is that _chanting_?"

There was the rustling of silk and the chink of loose swords in scabbards as the others others in the barge all turned, their eyes cast in the direction of the Stones. When the noise abated, the previous sound registered once more, sending a chill clawing down Torrigan's back. It sounded like many people singing in tongues, though they kept their voices low – all the same, the dank walls of the reservoir caught the sounds and twisted, stretched and threw them down into the ears of the people in the barge.

"Charter help us," one of the women whispered, voice cracked with fear. "Your Highness, what did you see down here?"

Rogir did not answer.

"Charter help us!" That was the Queen. She was on her feet, hands pressed over her mouth, screaming.

Torrigan blinked. There were the Stones. People were surrounding them. But the Stones...were they bleeding? Something inside of Torrigan – burning, clenching anger – welled within him as he saw his sisters, their necks hideous and deformed, but why? He could not get his mind to except what he saw: they were dying, their lifesource pouring out, and -----

A hideous crack filled the air. Torrigan fell back, gasping, feeling as though someone had taken a fist to his gut and throat. His mouth was filled with bile; people were screaming; his brother was holding a knife and a cup. He tried to stand straight, tried shaking his head to clear his screaming mind. Rogir's hand jerked viciously, knife slicing viciously across the Queen's... Charter, no, this wasn't happening! What was going on! This wasn't real! None of this... This was a nightmare, damn it, a nightmare!

The flash of blade; the Queen falling; the rock of the barge as Rogir sprung nimbly into the icy waters bellow. Torrigan stared at the body of his mother before him, watching as her wasted blood began to stain the dark wood of the barge under his feet. In that instant, he lost his hold on the Charter Mark for light, and the barge was plunged into darkness. But he could still see: Vlare screamed and threw herself towards him, blocking the sudden, brutal attack from that guardsman, that Joss. Rogir's friend – Rogir's man! The lady-in-waiting fell, tossed overboard by the traitor. Dead, of course.

Torrigan's mind twisted, anger boiling his blood. He screamed. He screamed as though the sound itself could pierce the darkness and evil around him and break it, dragging his sword into the sickening air. He looked at Joss with unseeing eyes, red, like the blood of his mother and siblings, clouding his gaze, and knew he wanted to kill every man in this reservoir who allied himself with Rogir.

Joss faltered, clearly frightened by the mad look in Torrigan's eyes. Torrigan lunged. His sword sliced left and right, back and forth, round in an arc; he turned, arm moving of its own accord. Torrigan turned to face his brother, who had his back turned to him, cradling his cup in his hands. The madman barely registered that, as he had sworn, every traitorous man of Rogir's on the barge was dead. His hand tightened on the blade, lifting it high in the air in one powerful movement.

Screaming one last time, Torrigan swung his arm back and then forwards. His hand opened to let the blade slice the air in front of him. He would kill Rogir. Torrigan would kill Rogir, even if he had to die trying!

* * *

_Just a note to say, I personally always thought Cranaque was kinda like Croquette, so that explains why they were outside. Please no flames on that point! Thanks! Please R&R!!!! _

And is it finished??? No! XD


	16. What A Change This Brings To Life

_This chapter is dedicated to my daddy, for refusing to leave Life before his time._

* * *

**What A Change This Brings To Life...**

The sun had risen that morning. Hadn't it? Lifting his head a little to glance out the window, Adviser Maurier saw the sun's sleepy head peering lazily over the crop of the horizon. The sky looked as though it had been set aflame, and the clouds had been turned golden in colouring, as though they had been touched by the hand of some unknown god.

_Red sky at night, Charter's delight; red in the morning..._

The adviser shuddered, trembling hands darting out to snatch up the pitcher of wine from its stand on the table. Another generous refill sloshed into his glass, staining the ornate clear glass a deep, sensual red. The wine caught the light as the adviser raised the glass to his lips, momentarily blinking him with its dazzling gleam. Like a ruby's seductive wink.

Or blood's sinister...

Glass smashed on the flagstones beneath his feet as Adviser Maurier dropped the drink in disgust. A servant hurried forwards in a daze, bending to try and pick up the dangerous shards, but the adviser shooed him away impatiently. After all, there were more pressing matters to deal with.

_I should go_. Adviser Maurier swallowed hard, glancing hesitantly towards the door. _If the servants' words count for anything, Logan Francis had not left the Princess's side since...she was brought back to the palace._

Before he courage could deserted him again, Adviser Maurier forced himself to walk through the doorway and out into the silent hallways beyond. As he walked, he heard the sounds of a household suffering sheer, unadulterated shock: soft wails of remorse in distant rooms, a faint smash of china, the flit of a shadow as a guard paced quietly through his memories. The loudest noise by far to reach Adviser Maurier's ears was that of the drum of his own life-force thudding nervously within his breast, and the hiss of his robes on the stones at the backs of his ankles.

The Stones. In the reservoir. Two of them, broken by the blood of innocent, by the blood of a Charter bloodline; by the man that should one day have been King. Reaching the door to the...room, the adviser stopped and felt nausea sweep over him, burning his neck red. He had no name for the room which he was about to enter for a second time that awful morning. It had once been a bedroom – Princess Elsiea's. Now, it was nothing more than a...pitiful representation of a morgue.

The room had been dark; now it blazed with light. Adviser Maurier faltered, taken aback by the sight of so many twinkling candles in one place. His eyes shifted, falling on the bed that lay at the furthest corner of the room. The light of the little flames was concentrated the most overpowering there, casting the shadow of the man who hunched in the chair besides the bed in a warp, elongated twist along the floor. The man did not stir as the door opened, neither did he reply to the adviser's call. It was only when Adviser Maurier laid a hand on his shoulder that Logan finally looked up.

Adviser Maurier bit his lip, losing all urge to speak. He could give no word of comfort to himself; how could he hope to try and comfort another? Logan's eyes shone unashamedly, his look that of a man whose heart had been twisted in his chest. Then wrenched from his body. Then burned before his eyes. The adviser had never believed it possible that a person's heart could break, least of all a man's – and a member of the Guard's at that! Now he could see his common sense had deceived him.

Logan's back straightened slightly. He pressed his hands to his face, taking a deep, shaking breath. "Adviser Maurier? Sir, f-forgive me for not standing. I..."

"It doesn't matter." The adviser forced himself to look at the Queen's youngest daughter. He felt a cold touch of pity as he saw just how beautiful the young woman had grown over her years in Life. He'd never really noticed it until now – such a shame, such a waste. Now that beauty had been stolen, and no man had ever been given a chance to appreciate it in the full flesh.

Or had they? The rumours of...premarital 'fun' between Logan and Elsiea had caused many noses to wrinkle in court. In light of the current situation – that situation being that the girl was dead – Adviser Maurier couldn't help looking at the wretched man and hoping that there had been more to the rumours than just mere gossip. Logan was stroking his hand gently over her curls, as though his thick fingers could clumsily soothe away the pain of the wound that lay beneath that ornamental choker on her neck, even while she was in Death.

"I asked for the candles to be brought here," Logan whispered, his attention fixed rigidly onto his beloved's face. "I... She shouldn't have to stay in the darkness for so long. Not before she's...before they have to..."

"I believe the term you are missing is 'bury her'," drawled a voice from the doorway behind them.

Adviser Maurier bristled with rage, chin raising out of disdain. Another voice, a man's deep one, hissed nervously at the speaker from behind. "That is enough from you, Yrael!"

Turning, the adviser saw a tall man in a surcoat emblazoned with tiny silver keys glaring furiously down at a albino dwarf. The little man was looking at Logan with unmasked resentment, his arms crossed stubbornly across his chest.

"I am merely helping him come to terms with the truth," he said, addressing the Abhorsen behind him. "Sitting and sulking will not help the Princess: she's probably all ready passed the First Gate."

There was a growl from Logan. His shoulders shifted with suppressed rage. "I don't care who you are," he said softly, "if you do not leave this room immediately, I swear – I _swear_ I will---"

"Save your breath, boy," the albino snapped, hitching up his belt indignantly. A small chime of a bell sounded, and the dwarf flinched. "I'm leaving."

Meeting the adviser's gaze, the Abhorsen grimaced. "Forgive his disrespectful tone at this most grievous of times; 'tis just his nature. It would appear that none of my predecessors managed to soften his tongue."

Adviser Maurier swallowed hard. "What do you want?" The man flinched like a chastised child. "Abhorsen."

"Could I speak to you outside? I..." He looked fretfully towards the sullen Logan. "Please, Adviser."

Grudgingly, Maurier left the room. The albino dwarf, who was leaning casually against a wall further on down the hall, smiled thinly as the adviser faltered. Abhorsen cleared his throat uncomfortably, toying with a handle of one of his bells in the bandoleer at his chest.

"I...heard that the Queen's funeral ship is ---"

"Incomplete? Aye, we presumed she would have a few more years left to live," was the adviser's harsh snap. His brow furrowed darkly as he glared at the Abhorsen. "What _took_ you so long? Did you know what Rogirek had become?"

"Of course he didn't," the albino called scornfully. "Charter forbid that _he_ ever do his job right."

The Abhorsen's hand clenched into a fist. "Silence, I said!"

"Yes." The albino bowed mockingly.

"If you please, sir, state your business and then be on your way."

"How will Her Majesty and Their Highnesses be laid to rest?"

The adviser's foot began to tap impatiently. "Cremation. We can no longer make proper use of the ship in Holehallow. After that, we shall probably elect a regent to..." It was the look that flashed across Abhorsen's face that caused the adviser to pause. "What is wrong, sir?"

"A regent..." The Abhorsen sucked a whistled breath in between his lips. "May not be neccessary."

Adviser Maurier felt his muscles tighten. "But the royal family is dead."

"Torrigan?"

The man shook his head. "I do not know where his body has been lain. Probably in his own rooms but...I do not know for ---"

"He isn't dead."

Silence descended between them. Adviser Maurier blanched suddenly, the Abhorsen's words suddenly hitting him full about the skull.

"Not dead?"

"Aye."

"But...how is that possible?" He pointed at Abhorsen. "You were seen taking his body out of the reservoir yourself."

"I had to knock him unconcscious," the Abhorsen admitted with a grimace, as though the act was yet another crime to be held against that of being too slow to stop the deceased Crown Prince's actions. "He had gone mad with rage trying to avenge his family's death. I left him in one of the towers, where he wouldn't draw attention to himself, or harm inqusiative servants or guards. He will most likely be awake now."

The adviser licked dry lips. "I must see him. Torrigan may very well be our new king!"

Bowing his head, Abhorsen nodded to the albino. "You are to remain with the Pincess' betrothed. But for the love of the Charter, Yrael, do _not_ speak to him!"

"Of course," the albino drawled absently. It looked up and finished with a voice dipping with sarcasm: "_Master_."

* * *

Fear touched Adviser Maurier as the Abhorsen recoiled slightly from the heavy door, as though he were trying to judge something that was happening on the other side of the door. Then there was a glow of Charter magic, a click of a lock, and the door swung gradually open. 

"Torrigan?"

The adviser hung back awkwardly as the Abhorsen ducked into the gloom of the room, calling the bastard Prince's name again. There was no sound coming from within, only the soft pad of the Abhorsen's shoes echoing in the darkness. A sense of foreboding gripped him, and his mouth opened to try and call the Abhorsen back, suddenly terrified. His shout, however, was lost under the unbearable howl that filled the air.

The Abhorsen yelled outright, the door slammed, and suddenly air was ripped by a terrific _bang_. By the time the adviser managed to grapple with the handle and force his way past the door, the Abhorsen was braced against the wall staring towards the figure who was crouched at the other side of the flagstones to him. For a moment, Adviser Maurier thought he was looking at some kind of rabid dog. Then Torrigan turned his vicious gaze onto him...

...and a savage snarl curled from the back of his throat.

"W-what has _happened_ to him?" stammered the adviser, horrified by the sight of the murderous-looking young man.

Abhorsen straightened, warily eyeing the Prince. "He has always had a tendency to react badly to situations that he finds hard to manage. He has berserker blood, does he not?"

"I believe the Queen may have---"

"Well," Abhorsen cut over him, nodding towards Torrigan, "this is that blood in all its berserking glory."

Adviser Maurier spun on him, growling. "This is the..." There was another warning growl from the boy behind him. "...future...new...king."

A dark eyebrow raised questioningly. "You'd willingly let _this_ rule the kingdom." He walked forwards, holding his hand out to Torrigan. The lad shied back, hesitated, then tried to launch himself at Abhorsen – and crashed into a gleaming shield before him. "After what he saw last night, something within his mind moved."

"Will he recover?"

There was a strange look in Abhorsen's eyes. "With time," he said finally. "I hope so. There might be something I could...do."

Adviser Maurier took a step forward eagerly, trying to ignore the watchful Torrigan. "What? Come on, sir! Tell!"

The Abhorsen did not speak for a moment. He seemed to be absorbed in thought. Then he bit his lip and asked, "I doubt he will remember this – this thing you see before you is not the young man who tried to protect his mother and sisters. This is not him. This is the result."

Too horrified to linger any longer in the Prince's presence, Adviser Maurier backed out of the room, shaking his head feverishly. "Do _whatever_ you think will be best, Abhorsen. Just...the Old Kingdom needs him."

"This won't be easy."

"I wouldn't think so!"

"It'll take a while. The mind takes a long time to heal itself."

"Never mind, never mind! Whatever it takes, however long it takes."

Abhorsen nodded weakly as the adviser hurried from the tower room. It was only as the muffled slam of a door at the bottom of the winding staircase sounded did the enemy of the Dead shake his shoulders free of their tension.

Gently, the Abhorsen looked back at the Prince, observing the distrustful look that had clawed its way onto Torrigan's face. It was the farthest thing from peaceful: his lips were drawn back, his forehead creased deeply. A small whine escaped from his mouth – it was a frightened, painful sound.

_The Dead will run riot now that Rogir..._Kerrigor_ has managed to claim half of his plan as success. The Kingdom will be trying to repair the wounds left by the murder of the Queen and her daughters, and they would look to Torrigan for this comfort and knowledge to see them through_. The Abhorsen felt a tremor in his spine. _How could someone who has been so badly disturbed hope to be a source of solace? I will have to hide him somewhere, where he can recover without pressure from ministers and frantic public._

Unlooked for knowledge seemed to rise within him suddenly as he stepped away from the hunched lad. The Queen's funerary ships...it was not like it would be used, or would ever need to be, and Holehallow was both a decent distance away from the capital and a perfect setting in which to hide a Prince.

But how long would the recovery process take? Abhorsen grumbled under his breath, not liking what he thought. A few years, maybe. Possibly even more. That did not bode well for the Kingdom, especially if the Dead were to rise up in force. A regent's care was all very well, but how could anyone expect this boy to take a hold of a Kingdom and face the enemy that was his brother so soon? How could the Abhorsen expect that of him? Better to hide him away, at least until he was recovered.

_The fewer people who know of Torrigan's whereabouts the better_, he decided. _It would not do to have people appearing to check on him..._

Aging. The years would take their tole of Torrigan – would he come to the throne, at last, only to die some handful of years later? No. Charter, no, then the whole bloodline would really threaten to die out!

_Listen to me rambling!_ Abhorsen scolded crossly._ I must make a decision. Yet the fate of the Kingdom is entwined with his, I can sense it. I could – spell him? Could I? But into what? A deep sleep would not fight of Time's cruel fingers; I would need something else._ He blinked, surprised. _Charter, I'm really thinking about turning the last monarch of my land into some inanimate object! I best remember to pass this knowledge down to my successors, if I do not panic and pull out of this crazy idea._

_But maybe it is just crazy enough to actually work._

So what could Abhorsen turn Torrigan into? A statue would be idea, but probably unrealistic. Even though Holehallow was protected, the thought of some ignorant graverobber making off with a petrified King was about as welcome a thought as that of letting the Dead stroll through the doors of Abhorsen's house. Then what about...

Abhorsen felt himself smile grimly. _What ship is complete without its trusty figurehead? Charter, help me know what I am doing!_

"Torrigan?" The boy flinched, then jerked back. "Torrigan. Please, come here."

Torrigan seemed to creep forwards to meet him, then drew back as Abhorsen's arm lashed out, hand clasping down hard on the man's arm. A flash of Charter magic filled the room. Torrigan shouted outright, alarmed, arms flying up to shield his face... Abhorsen stepped forwards to grab Torrigan as he threatened to slump, dead to the world, to the ground. Only the boy did not slump. Instead started to sway dangerously. Heavily. Not like a human, or anything living, at all.

Abhorsen gasped as he caught the figurehead, feeling its sharp fingers bash roughly into his shoulder. He pushed it away to arms length, half-gleeful, half-frightened, by just how well his spell had worked. The limbs were wooden; the clothes he wore were still very much soft material. Placing his hand to the Charter mark on Torrigan's forehead, he blanched, taken aback. He could not feel the boy's spirit...it was almost as if...

_He is half in Death, half in Life. He is, er, suspended inbetween?_ Abhorsen thought blearily. _Surely not?_

Stranger, more terrible things had occurred, however. If Rogirek could turn renegade, surely Torrigan's spirit could be in Death when his body did not – could not – rot? _After all_, Abhorsen noted as he propped the figurehead back against the wall, _it's not as if Torrigan is technically _alive_ any more._

Content with his work and plan, Abhorsen turned and left the petrified prince in the darkness. He would call a servant, tell them to organise for him a cart and small escort. Yarael could make his way without him. In honour of the Queen's memory, the 'recently finished figurehead' would be erected in pride of place at the prow where it aught to be.

But figureheads usually didn't usually dress in Guard uniform. Abhorsen paused at the bottom step, hand braced on the heavy handle, and rolled his eyes. It looked as though he would have to remove the clothes from Torrigan's back with his bare hands, burn them, and then go collect the servant.

Turning on his head, Abhorsen started the steep trek back up the winding staircase to the tower room above.

* * *

_And that is finally the end!...now, boys and girls, go and read "Sabriel" again! _XD 


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